Dear Harry
by shaemichelle
Summary: When wards crash at the Dursleys, Harry's left nearly dead. When he finds the Dursleys at the Weasleys with him, he finds an attempted strike means more than he thought. Did Dumbledore know all those years? At least he has his friends...
1. Chapter 1: Wards

_Dear Harry,_

_This is Hermione. I'm just checking up on you; while I know you can take care of yourself, I know your aunt and uncle aren't exactly endearing. _

_I want to ask you about your uncle's behaviour at the train station. When we met him outside the platform, he told you to quit consorting with the freaks and get in the car, before turning around and leaving. Why did he call us freaks, Harry? Is it because we're magic? Does he treat you like that?_

_When you first came to Hogwarts, I remember, on the train, you had this huge bruise across your face that took a fortnight to fade. With your uncle's behaviour and your lack of enthusiasm over the past approaches of summer holidays, I've concluded the bruises are from your uncle. _

_Harry, you need to tell someone about this! I know you're almost sixteen, but you need to tell Professor Dumbledore, or at the very least McGonagall._

_How are you doing? I know you must miss Sirius, but you know it isn't your fault, don't you? Bellatrix Lestrange and Voldemort killed him, not you._

_I'm at my parents' house in London, and if you give me your Muggle address, I can come and take you to a County Fair near my grandparents' house. I'd get you on 10 July, and Ron might meet us there. _

_Do let me know, and do something about your uncle,_

_Your friend,_

_Hermione Granger _

Harry was lying on his back, where he had been for days. He was staring at the ceiling, and wasn't really seeing it anymore. What he was seeing in his mind's eye was worse. Painful memories of Sirius, once holding promise, now only guilt and death.

It was, of course, all Harry's fault. He rushed to the Department of Mysteries all half-cocked, and all the while, Sirius was sitting in his bedroom in the upper floors of Grimmauld Place, not needing rescue at all. If Harry hadn't been so stupid, so overconfident; if he'd owled the Order, if he'd Floo-ed his whole self to Grimmauld Place, if he'd gone to Snape, if only he'd used the mirror, even if he'd mastered Occlumency when he had the chance, if he'd just listened to Snape when he was teaching… Then Sirius would be here, Harry might even be spending the summer with him…

A knock drove Harry from his reverie. Locks unlatched and Mrs. Dursley walked in with a bowl of soup, canned by the tinny smell. He couldn't bring himself to eat more than a few bites, even Dudley, who was still on his diet, was eating more than he was. Harry didn't know why she bothered. Apparently, she felt the same. As she placed the bowl on his night table, she launched into a speech.

"Boy, if you keep wasting my time by not eating the food I put time and energy into—"

"You put time and energy into canned soup? I doubt it," he said dryly, though he felt rather dry himself.

"—purely out of the goodness of my heart," she continued, ignoring Harry's outburst completely. "Why, I should get your uncle to teach you a lesson—"

"Because that worked _so_ well last time."

"—especially since your godfather, who, interestingly enough, never killed anyone, is dead." Harry's heart missed a beat. How did they know about Sirius, who told them? As sorry as he was, when he was at the Dursleys, he hadn't mentioned any of his misadventures at school. Not only did he not want to, but also the prospect of having a murderer watching over him had his uncle keeping his hands to himself.

"Smart friend, that Granger girl, telling us all about your 'current state.' Who shall protect poor Harry? Not us, that's for sure. You've been ungrateful and nothing more than a thorn in our sides. We gave you food and put a roof over your head, and you do nothing to repay us. I—" But a certain snowy owl swooped in the room, interrupting the woman.

Mrs. Dursley screamed and bolted; Harry sat and scratched Hedwig as he removed the letter. It was from Hermione. He began to read, thinking as he did so. Hermione had told his aunt and uncle about…

_When you first came to Hogwarts, I remember, on the train, you had this huge bruise across your face that took a fortnight to fade. With your uncle's behaviour and your lack of enthusiasm over the past approaches of summer holidays, I've concluded the bruises are from your uncle. _

Why did she have to push about his uncle? So… so what if…

So, what if Harry didn't have the time of his life here at the Dursleys, but he survived, didn't he? What was done was done, and he was a year and a bit from seventeen, then he'd never have to see his "family" again.

A very angry, purple faced man named Vernon Dursley snatched the letter from Harry's hands.

"What," he demanded, "did you do to my wife?"

"Nothing," answered Harry rather truthfully, staring at the spot where the letter had been a moment before.

"Bull—! Look at me when I'm speaking to you, boy, and show some respect! Petunia runs screaming from the room, and you tell me you did bloody nothing!" His uncle loomed over Harry, expecting him to cringe. Spit flew from his jowls and Harry looked away. "You insolent and ungrateful little ––! We give you food and clothes, put a roof over your head, and you refuse the home we—"

Suddenly, Harry had had enough. He'd been playing games with his uncle for far too long. He felt anger rising up, and he made no effort to squelch it. He stood, and clenched his fists to keep from punching something. His uncle sneered at him as he moved; Harry ignored the fact his uncle _did_ tower over Harry by a good ten inches.

"You put a roof over my head? You made me live in a cupboard, locked me in for days! You put clothes on my back? Only after Dudley outgrew or wrecked them! You beat me, you starved me, you did your damn best to make sure I never felt loved, or even remotely liked! Anything I did was abnormal or strange; nothing was ever good enough! All because Petunia is mad at my mum for something that happened over twenty years ago! This was never home, and you were never family!"

Mr. Dursley backhanded his nephew viscously, swearing as he did so. Harry fell and his shoulder blade struck the night table, and the soup his aunt prepared tipped, spilling its scalding contents down Harry's back. He let out a yell as it burned him, biting into his skin.

There was a huge bang, then a series of popping noises, and Harry panicked as he saw a white-masked wizard holding his uncle at wand point.

The wards had gone down.

* * *

_A/N: The first chapter of _Dear Harry_. Pretty exciting, I think. I'm so far ahead in this story, I can set deadlines determined by YOU, readers for my updates. I'm still pissed about the lack of reviews I got in_ Captured,_ even though i had upwards of five thousand hits. It didn't seem to add up to 32 reviews... So even though I hate doing this, I'm ditching my pride to protect my feelings: I won't update until I get ten reviews. TEN. It won't be very hard for you guys. Ten. In _Captured,_ the Brazilians who read the story could do that by themselves, not even mentioning the overwhelming amount of non-reviewing Americans I got. Geez, if I keep venting, this will be a chapter on its own. _


	2. Chapter 2: Freakishness

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Ron was sitting in the kitchen of the Burrow, watching his sister write a disgustingly long letter. She sat there once Ron finished his first sandwich, and he was eating his fourth now.

"Who are you writing to?" he asked, just as his mother burst into the kitchen, looking very, very worried and panicked. Her hair looked as though she had yanked it in agitation; her apron smudged with ashes.

"Where are the twins?" she demanded. Ron shrugged.

"Upstairs, I think. Why? What's going on?"

"Albus just made a fire call; we supposed to get the Order to Privet Drive."

Ron stood and followed his hurrying mother, Ginny at his heels. "Why Privet Drive? What's up with Harry?" demanded his little sister. His mother ignored her as she burst into the twins' room. They were building something very odd in between their beds. It looked like a cross between a toilet and a car. The room showed they had been working, it was filthy; papers and clothes lay scattered, as if explosions had rocked them free from drawers.

"Go to Privet Drive and get Harry," she ordered, and their smiles faded as they heard her words. They knew Harry was in trouble. "The wards are down there, just Apparate, get Harry, and get out."

With a pop, Fred and George Disapparated. Ron stopped his mother as she tried to hurry away. Ginny appeared at his shoulder.

"What's going on with Harry?" Ron demanded.

His mother wrung her hands, glancing towards the door, then the fireplace, but didn't hesitate to give her youngests information, for once. "The wards went down, Albus knew they were being toyed with by the Death Eaters, but he thought the blood magic would keep Harry safe. That's all I know, and until the twins, Bill and Charlie get back, I can't tell you more." Ron believed his mother, and turned to go back to the kitchen with her. She ordered them through cleaning and other mindless chores as they waited.

An hour passed before they had news. Bill and Charlie came in through the back kitchen door, followed by a large man with a purple face, a horsy woman with mouse-brown hair, and an even larger boy with beady blue eyes and thin blonde hair. The boy had his sausage-like fingers wrapped around his colossal behind, the look of unnecessary terror in his eyes made Ron want to slip him a Canary Cream.

"Where's Harry?" demanded Mrs. Weasley.

"Fred and George have him. He's at Mrs. Fig's house; it was closer. Madame Pomfrey should be there be now."

"Madame Pomfrey? Why? Is he hurt?" demanded Ginny, seeming close to tears, which was saying something when it came to tomboy Ginny. Charlie nodded, but his reply was interrupted by a low, but clearly audible, something from the older fat man.

"Bloody unnatural, this place is. Surrounded by some of his lot, no doubt," the man was muttering.

"Oh, shut up," snapped Charlie. Mrs. Weasley noticed the other guests and went to them as she scolded her son for rudeness.

"Hello, there!" she greeted them in a kind tone. Ron sniggered as the man half-swelled with self-importance and half-cringed with fear. His wife, judging by the rings on his and her hands, cowered behind him.

"Now, see here! We want no part in this freakishness! I demand you use that—that thing," he pointed to the coffee mug in Charlie's hand that must have been a Portkey, "to take us home at once!"

"Freaks in Hallowe'en masks all over the front lawn, what will the neighbours think? We are a normal family, it's entirely that boy's fault," the wife muttered.

"I told you, Petunia; we should have sent him and his freakishness to the orphanage! Now look where he's landed us!" the fat man bellowed at top voice while "shielding" his wife from Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry's ever-so-charming family," Bill said in a slightly sarcastic tone, "his aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley. That's Dudley. The house burnt down, but the Ministry is fixing it up and handing out Memory Charms like candy."

"Perhaps a spot of tea? While you're here we could cook something up, what do you say?" asked Mrs. Weasley in a mild voice. Ron knew she was bristled, like both he and his siblings, at the frequent, casual terming of freaks.

"Why? So it can cause our tongues to grow like snakes?" demanded Mrs. Dursley, glaring at Bill, who looked the most like the twins. Ron sniggered at the evil grin Bill gave them. Dudley whimpered.

"What's wrong with Harry?" Ginny repeated impatiently. That sobered the room, if not the Dursleys.

"He was hit with two curses, a Diffindo across his jugular, and the Cruciatus. Both caused equal damage; but he should be being tended to at Mrs. Fig's right now. And his face was beat up, but not with a wand. Dursley here obviously laid in on him," Bill said calmly.

Ron heard his mother gasp as she heard about the first curse. Ron didn't know what a jugular was, but it must be serious. He'd have to ask Hermione when he wrote her to tell her of what happened to Harry.

Ginny sat on the couch, her mother sank down beside her, rage-spots glowing on her cheek, and the Dursleys hovered in the doorway, forgotten, as the three Weasley boys went into the kitchen. Ron wanted to leave so he wouldn't have to watch his mother and sister yelling at Harry's family for their treatment of him. He could almost hear his mother's anger over Bill's casual comment – his own resentment well hidden – at Dursley beating on Harry. Mrs Weasley might not feed them.

Ron listened to his brothers as he made them sandwiches. Ron had always suspected Harry's family life was less than great, but hearing it confirmed made him want to hex the Muggles he called relatives. Bill looked more disappointed than angry.

"I know Dumbledore said the wards were fine, but they didn't hold did they?" retorted Bill.

"It's not your fault. You designed them around the blood magic, so when it crashed, so did your wards," Charlie surmised, taking a sandwich from Ron. The short and brawny Charlie was perched on the counter as the tall and wiry Bill leant against the back door.

"I should have thought about a back-up system. Then this wouldn't have happened. Harry's house burnt down, all his stuff is gone—"

"Not all of it, we've got his wand and his Firebolt. Maybe his clothes, but geez, they were so horrible I don't feel very bad."

"And he's hurt. If I had—"

"He'll be fine, Bill," Ron told his brother around a mouthful of tuna sandwich. "He always is. Besides, Harry never blames anyone for anything that happens to him."

"I blame myself, Ron. There's a difference."

"A stupid difference."

* * *

_A/N: I suck at not updating. I tried so hard to NOT give you this chapter until I got my reviews... Sorry..._


	3. Chapter 3: Awake

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry awoke suddenly, sitting up and wincing at the ache that throbbed through his body. No, throbbed was the wrong word. It was a constant.

"Harry!" someone said in a surprised tone. He looked around blindly, searching for both the speaker and his glasses. The speaker, with a red blur for hair, of course, handed them to him.

He slipped his glasses on. As the room came into sharp focus, he saw Fred—or maybe George—straddling a chair beside the couch he lay on.

"Hey, Fred," he, George, yelled. "Harry's returned to the land of the living."

"Don't joke about that, Georgie-porgie-pudding-pie. It was awfully close," Fred said, a serious tone on his normally jovial voice and face.

"D'you remember what happened, Harry?" George asked this a tad bit fast for Harry to comprehend; he had heard what George had asked but, honestly, had no idea what he had said. His neck felt like it had been torn open, which, he recalled, it had.

"What?" he asked. George cast a worried glance at Fred, who gave him a twin-speak look that Harry couldn't decipher. Harry dimly became aware of the four cats lying on top of him, and knew he was at Mrs Fig's house.

"Do you remember what happened at the Dursleys?" George repeated, slowly this time, almost as if speaking to a rather simple young child. Harry did. He remembered Lucius Malfoy slicing his neck open, then Bellatrix Lestrange hitting him with the most painful thing Harry knew of—the Cruciatus.

He nodded, and then looked around again. He remembered bleeding pretty badly, but the room was spotless, for Mrs Fig's house, anyways. The twins must've had to clean up his blood. He felt somewhat bad about that. He'd have to do the twins a favour sometime.

"Mind filling us, mate? Why do you have a burn all down your back? And the bruise from hell across your face?"

Harry touched the side of his face, and winced at the deep bruising. "Nothing," he answered quickly. As he inspected the damage, he felt a bandage across his neck. So Madame Pomfrey had visited. He must have been badly hurt for her to be unable to heal him straight off; he still had a cut, he could feel it underneath the rough linen and tape. George snorted instantly and turned to Fred, who sighed at the answer to his question.

"You owe me a galleon. I told you it was his uncle!"

"My uncle! What are you on about?" Harry exclaimed.

"Oh, come off it, Harry," George continued, turning back to him as Fred rifled his pockets. "We all know. Your uncle, he… he beats you." Harry stuttered as he tried to deny it, but he didn't know what to say.

"It's slightly obvious. Now that the elephant in the room has been acknowledged," said Fred in a sarcastic tone, handing George his money. "You obviously dislike them, always have bruises at the end of summer hols, never talk about 'em… Leads you on, then you see how the Dursleys behave when they pick you up from the station…" Fred said all this in an annoying up-talking way, pointing out the obvious.

"Yeah, Harry. You ought to tell Mum."

"She'd put an end to it real quick. Might even get you to live with us," Fred sniggered. Harry's mind envisioned Professor Dumbledore, who had insisted the Dursleys was the best place for him year after year, facing the fury of Molly Weasley.

"Are the Dursleys all right? Did they get out?" he asked, realized the Death Eaters would feel no remorse over murdering innocents like them. He hoped the Dursleys weren't dead. He had as well as killed Sirius; if the Dursleys were dead, it was his fault as well. Fred nodded.

"They're at the Burrow." Harry felt his eyes widen.

"The Burrow? The Dursleys?" Despite his inhibitions about the situation, he couldn't help but be intrigued. "How's that going?"

Fred and George sighed dramatically. "Oh, Harry dear," George began.

* * *

Ginny was trying to do her Potions homework. Why Snape had to assign homework on the holidays, after his impossible exams no less, was beyond her.

She glanced at the fire. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. The twins had told them almost two hours ago Harry remained unconscious; he wouldn't be moved until he was awake. She wished he'd get a move on and come around. It had been three days since the attack.

His relatives were still at the Burrow. Ginny really disliked these Muggles. Even her dad was angry at their treatment of his family, he'd stopped asking them about felly-tones and please-men the moment they'd called him a freak who ought to be ashamed of his abnormality. Her dad… he might know about Veritaserum…

She turned back to the essay. She wished Hermione were here so she could get some help. Bill had told her he knew squat about the use of Veritaserum, Charlie didn't even know what she was talking about; and Ron…

Ron was a basket case. He wouldn't admit it to anyone but he was terrified Harry wouldn't be OK this time. He hid it well, but Ginny knew; she could always tell what people were feeling. He loved Harry like a brother; Ginny knew he was worried sick about him.

She was too. She had, to a certain extent, gotten over her crush on Harry, meaning she had perused the menu other waiting for the one entrée, but he did hold a special place in her heart. He saved her life; and he stuck up for her with Ron almost all the time. Her concern was one that a friend felt for another, she wasn't… Do your work! she scolded herself, trying to prevent too much straying from the task.

Veritaserum wasn't used in legal trials because… they wanted accused people to confess on their own account? Because murderers don't lie, it'd be unethical, she thought angrily. This essay was stupid. She wasn't becoming a lawyer, a judge or a Death Eater; she didn't need to know this.

Where was her dad? He'd know about this, he knew this sort of inane stuff. She could see the clock from here if she leaned back. He was working again. Whether for the Order or the Ministry, he was in and out of the Burrow constantly. He'd be by soon. She should go wait by the front door; he would come in there.

Come to think, where was her mum? She wasn't cooking…

As she left the kitchen, a sound stopped her. She spun, hand going to her wand's pocket immediately, a habit she picked up after joining the DA. Fred had emerged from the fireplace, and then turned to catch something that toppled from it.

He helped Harry stand up straight as George came through the fire; and Ginny almost laughed as she ran to them. Harry looked so dizzy; she could just imagine the little, cheeping, yellow birds flying in circles around his head, twittering.

She flung her arms around Harry, squeezing, and ignoring his protests that he was fine.  
"Harry!" she said as she let go. "Are you OK? What happened to your face?"

"Nothing! I'm fine!" he said in a tone that showed he was anything but. She hugged her brothers as she pondered him. Hermione had written to her when she heard of the attack; she had said some things about his uncle… And the bandage across his throat! Was he still hurt from Malfoy Senior's spell? Were the effects of the Cruciatus still hurting him? Did her rather fierce, but merely friendly, hug hurt him?

After she got Harry and the twins settled in the drawing room, she ran up the stairs to Ron's room. She banged on the door, and entered. He looked up from a book on his pillow as he lay on his stomach on the orange bed. He was annoyed she interrupted him.  
"Harry's downstairs." He was halfway down the stairs before she even registered he moved. Harry was lucky to have a friend like her brother. That was just about the only lucky thing in his life.

* * *

_A/N: Might have been a little slow on the uptake here. My computer died in an expolsion of soda in my backpack and I lost the original chapter meant to be here. Ergo, I also lost the_ twelve _other chaps I had done**. So, if you have ANY suggestions on where this should go... review or PM me. ASAP**. Thanks..._


	4. Chapter 4: Hit

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry smiled at everyone, the Weasleys, Tonks and even Remus. It was dinner at the Burrow, his first day back. He hadn't talked with the Dursleys yet, but he knew they were here; he seen them skulking about, and the couch in the sitting room had begun to sag; Harry imagined Dudley slept there.

He had accepted his plate from Mrs. Weasley, but stared for a moment at the amount of food. Perhaps it was his time of confinment at the Dursleys, but he couldn't believe someone expected him to actually eat that much. Then, judging by how much Ron ate, perhaps it was Mrs Weasley simply overestimating him.

He waited until everyone had plates, and then began to eat, listening to the sibling spars around him. He was enjoying himself, despite the aches from the Cruciatus, until he saw his guardians standing in the doorway.

He froze. Vernon appeared angry, enraged, while his wife and son hid behind him. Dudley seemed intrigued by the amount of food, and Harry wondered if they had accepted any food from the "wizarding freaks" in the past days.

Ron and the others glared at the guests, and Harry wondered if Uncle Vernon had pulled his freakish abnormality speech on them. The tension in the room was palpable, was unmistakable.

"Why don't we just set some extra plates for dinner, then?" Mrs. Weasley smiled, trying to bring calmness and order to the situation, although Harry could tell she was nervous. He knew she wasn't fond of the Dursleys, but he was incredibly grateful to her for making an effort for his sake, trying to pacify them for him.

"We won't be eating anything here," Vernon replied rudely. Harry stood and approached his uncle slowly, almost shakily. He had a bad feeling about this situation. "You will be taking us home. And that boy will not be returning with us!" His jowls shuddered with his words.

Harry could see that Uncle Vernon was close to exploding, and he was beginning to panic. He had to separate them from the others before the situation got out of hand. He really didn't want any of his friends to witness the consequences of Uncle Vernon losing his temper. This was going to be a bad one, and he'd prefer for it to happen in private, so he could figure out how to hide it: the hit and the resulting bruise. They already know he hits you, let it happen, whispered half his mind, the part that had spent too much time talking with Hermione and Ron.

Yeah, but I don't want to confirm it, he thought viscously, silencing the stupid part. Not completely, but it seemed to huff, annoyed, and murmur caution. Definitely Hermione-like, that part.

"Let me take you out into the sitting room while everyone finishes their dinner," Harry said, trying to draw attention from his friends. Maybe he could get his family to leave, hopefully without anything—

Uncle Vernon whirled on him. "You! You goddamn, little freak. This is entirely your fault. Do you have any idea what they did to my house?" He felt Ron and another rise behind him; felt them ready to defend Harry. He held a hand akimbo and waved it downwards. A threatened Dursley was a hostile Dursley.

"Let's go in there and you can tell me," he repeated, desperate. Don't do anything until we're out of sight. Don't let them know...

"You've brought nothing but trouble since the day they left you on our doorstep, and I've had enough!" his uncle shouted. Harry knew what was coming before his uncle even moved.

His uncle raised his arm and backhanded the air where Harry's head was a split-second before with all his might.

All of the Weasley children stood, and as Harry straightened, he saw Mr. Weasley physically restraining his wife in her chair. The fury, the rage on her face was enough to melt a glacier or three. The Dursleys followed a screaming Dudley from the room as the twins pulled their wands out.

Harry followed the Dursleys into the sitting room, still intent on protecting the Weasleys from their disgust of him and all things magical, thinking two things. First, could the Dursleys be reasoned with now? And would he die from embarrassment from having his friends see that?

Ginny stared at Harry's retreating back. Her mother was practically snarling at the fat man's actions. As pieces clicked into place, she wanted to cry. How could Harry put up with this? How could he, gentle and softhearted as he was, live like that? Hunted in the wizarding world, beaten and belittled in the Muggle one? And how was he softhearted and gentle with all he'd been through in his life?

There was dead silence in the kitchen. She wished someone would—could—say something; anxiousness flowed from everyone in the room. Beyond the door she could feel Harry's humiliation, almost see it coming out in waves.

"That's right, it's your fault!" shrieked Mrs. Dursley from the sitting room. Now that she was really listening, she heard a few quiet, calming words she didn't quite catch. There was a shouted swear, then a thud. Remus stood again, having sat when Harry had motioned for him to.

"I'll go," he said in a mild, yet distinctly furious voice, to Mr. Weasley, who had also stood. "Harry is my responsibility. After Sirius…" Remus trailed off as he opened the door to the room Harry was in with his relatives. He entered.

Silence. Ginny suspected Remus was surveying the damage. "What are you doing?" she heard him yell, and she shivered at the wolf-like growl.  
Harry came out, guided by Remus's hand on his shoulder. His head bent, and at first, Ginny thought, he was self-conscious. Then she saw the concerned Remus, how Harry's hands cupped around his face, smeared with red. Oh no, Ginny thought. He lost all that blood three days ago; we can't afford to have him bleeding now!

Ginny, Tonks and Mrs Weasley leapt up at the same time. The women sat Harry on a chair, and as Tonks forced Harry's head up, Ginny saw his nose was probably broken.  
Even in this state, he refused to meet Tonks's violet eyes. Tonks tried to soothe him silently, as Mrs Weasley looked up the spell to fix his nose and Ginny mopped up blood.

He was healed, finally. Her mother had sent the boys into watch the Dursleys, it seemed. Now, she stuck her head in the Floo, Dumbledore following shortly after she retreated.

"What happened, exactly?" he asked, his blue pyjamas spotted with Muggle footballs.

"Harry's family decided to join us for dinner, despite their refusal to do so earlier. They demanded they take us home, and Harry... When he spoke, his uncle exploded, calling him—" she dropped her voice to a whisper "—a freak." Before she could continue, Harry interupted softly.

"It's not a big deal."

"It is, Harry. Has this happened before?" Dumbledore asked. Harry gave a broken laugh and glared up at the elderly man, an anger about him that Ginny had never seen before.

"Are you being intentionally thick, Professor?" he demanded. "I know that Poppy went to you after my first-year check-up, don't pretend that she didn't. You can't have recieved a list of my injuries and not put two and two together. Did you come up with three?"

"He knew?" Ron demanded, from where he sat on the couch beside his friend. "He knew and he didn't get you out?"

"I had assumed that the bruises were from bullies. It's not unusual, others have come to us victims of schoolyard bullying because of accidental magic—"

"I didn't even go to school, sir—"

"What?!" Ginny demanded. Hermione said Muggles started school at five or even six. Harry hadn't gone?

Harry stood suddenly. Ginny shuddered at the look on his face. He had apparently stood too fast and, still pale from blood loss, he nearly fell. Ron had stood alongside him, and held him up. He helped his friend storm out of the room.

Ginny left, leaving her mother to deal with Muggles and a very long explanation from the Headmaster.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the lengthy delay. I've been working a job to help myself out with school payments and I'm in play (opening night tomorrow!! OMG!!) and I've been swamped preparing for finals. SPECIAL THANKS TO ALL REVIEWERS, IN PARTICULAR CIRCLE M, WHO'S COMMENT SERVED AS A KICK-IN-THE-TUSH FOR ME. I LURVE REVIEWS, KEEP 'EM COMING! BTW, I'm still looking for help with the direction of the story, and a beta would be great.


	5. Chapter 5: Mattering

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

"I'm sorry, Harry," Ron said softly, as his friend paced the room, tearing his hand through his hair.

"Yeah, me too," Harry responded, sounding as though he needed to talk it out. Ron waited for him to continue. Harry seized a shirt off of Ron's bed, tugging it from under his cross-legged friend. He folded it and placed it in a near-empty drawer.

"He knew," Harry whispered, as he folded another t-shirt. "He knew and he never did anything to help me. He knew about the starvation, the beatings... He saw the broken bones when Poppy... And he didn't help me."

"How did he know?" Ron asked, prompting his friend without pushing. Getting Harry to talk was a delicate sport, one Ron disliked but played from time to time. He didn't answer right away, continuing to fiddle with clothes inside the drawer. Eventually he began putting the clutter of books atop the bureau in order,

"My first Hogwarts letter was addressed to the Cupboard Under The Stairs. I knew then and there he knew, and chose to do nothing." Harry wasn't looking at Ron, facing the cluttered bureau. "Did he hate me too? Does any adult feel like I ought to be protected? Some times I can't make it on my own. Maybe... I'm sure Dumbledore had his reasons, thought it best."

"I'm sorry," he said, shifting on the bed. Harry threw a final shirt in the drawer and turned around.

"You said that already," he snapped, jerking his thumb. Ron stood, moving to Harry's bed, a now permanent feature in his room. The Dursleys never noticed if he went missing for a day or three, and Ron had been sneaking him over for the past two summers. The train from London to St. Ottery Catchpole was only two hours, and only about fifteen pounds. The walk to Ron's country home wasn't a brutal one by any means, and Ron's mum was always willing to heal and feed Harry a bit.

Harry yanked the covers of the bed straight, tucking them under the matteress tightly. "I can't believe you saw that," Harry said, kicking Ron off his own bed, though that one was already made, that side of the room already spotless. He turned back around, looking for more mess to clean. He'd already done the whole room earlier; Ron had purposely messed his bed and bureau and changed to give him a few moments of distraction.

"Let's go to Ginny's room," Harry said, "She always has mess and I don't mind her knowing more."

"Do you really not mind or do you just need to clean?" Ron asked. "You're not cleaning my room, you're trying to clean up the mess with the Dursleys."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, going to the door. "But if I think it helps, and we know it doesn't hurt, what's the problem?"

"I think it's you. You need to talk to me, not try to clean a mess that isn't yours."

"I help you mess the room," Harry murmured stubbornly, not turning the doorknob his long fingers were curved around. As he continued, Ron knew he was referring to his aunt and uncle, not the room. "It's my mess, too."

"The Dursleys created it, not you. You did nothing wrong here, Harry," he said, laying a hand on the other's shoulder.

"I was a bad kid," Harry said, shaking the hand off and turning around. His green eyes pierced Ron, the small black torrents running through them standing out at the close proximity. "I got into fights back when I went to school, I broke dishes when I cleaned them, spilled food as I cooked; I shrunk their clothes when I washed them—"

"Little kids shouldn't have to cook and clean! They should've known that magic kids don't ever fit in with Muggle kids that young, because they make stuff happen. Dumbledore should've told them what t expect from you, he should've got you away from—"

"Maybe not all kids grow up like me, with their expectations, but I did!" Harry professed, stepping closer to Ron. "It was no different than if they had asked me to... to learn an instrument, or get good grades, Ron. They set rules and I couldn't live up to those!"

"Because four-year-olds can't make gourmet meals or starch dress shirts, they can't be expected to!" Ron said, shrugging his shoulders, unsure why Harry was defending them.

"I wasn't a normal kid," the shorter boy snapped, his voice rising a smidgen. "I was their kid, they decided what was best for me!"

"But they decided what was wrong," Ron countered. "They decided to... mistreat you, to make you like this."

"Like what?" Harry demanded, raising a curved brow. Instantly, Ron realized his mistake with his words. He looked down, cheeks aflame.

"That's not what I meant," he began.

"What did you mean, mate? What, am I crazy?"

"No, you're not—"

"Am I... damaged?"

"No, I meant—"

"Meant what? What the hell do you think is wrong with me?" Harry demanded and Ron looked up, angry that Harry was angry with him and not the people who had enabled his abusers.

"You're defending the Dursleys. You're defending what Dumbledore allowed. Why aren't you angry with them? With him?" he asked, stepping closer to Harry. He took an involuntary step back, hitting the still-closed door softly. "Why aren't you happy I can stop it for good?"

"You don't know what you're stopping," Harry whispered. Ron shook his head, scoffing.

"I know I'm stopping this," Ron said, brushing his fingers over Harry's bruised face. "That's enough for me."

"Why does it matter what stops?" the smaller boy asked, his eyes sad.

"Because you matter."

* * *

"Didn't you ever tell Dumbledore what you saw Harry going though?" Tonks asked. She tossed the tennis ball up once more, shrinking her purple bangs to see the ball clearly. Mrs Fig sighed from her spot leaning against the counter, a cat rubbing her arm.

"A few times. I only saw him up close about twice a year. I told Dumbledore the moment I realized what had started," she answered.

"When? What?" Tonks asked, lifting her foot away from another stupid cat. She always hated cats. They were independent pets, things you cared for and loved, and they never loved you back.

"I met Harry for the first time when he was seven. Right after he dropped out of school," the elderly woman said. Tonks froze after re-seizing the ball. She looked up at Arabella.

"Dropped out? He was seven, seven-year-olds don't—"

"He decided to stop going because every time the teachers reported a case of child abuse he had to switch schools and his uncle used bribes and friends to get out of charges of abuse," Bella explained. "Smart kid."

"I thought most Muggles need a high-school degree to get jobs. How did he expect to survive on the Muggle education of a seven-year-old?"

"If he had had to live with his uncle until now, he wouldn't have had to worry about living to twelve, let alone eighteen. He was smart to drop out."

"Why didn't any of the teachers at the school do anything?" Tonks asked, letting the ball hit the ground and roll away. "Why didn't someone see what he went through?"

"They did," she said, scooping up a calico cat, the same that had been rubbing on Tonks's foot a moment earlier. As she stared across the coffee table, an orange kitten sleeping in an empty fruit bowl. "But his uncle constantly was acquitted. They only took him to the hospital once, and Harry was beaten bad enough for the hospital to call social services straight away."

"No, at Hogwarts. Why didn't McGonagall do something? She's not unobservant, I just don't understand—"

"It was Dumbledore who chose to do nothing," Arabella said. "I've had several of the Hogwarts professors stopping by during the summer to heal the boy up a bit. Poppy came every week. That's why he survived there."

"He shouldn't have had to survive. He should've been able to live there, should've been able to thrive."

"He shouldn't have lost his parents either," Arabella snapped. "That's where the real injustice started."

* * *

A/N: I hate me too. I feel like that delay was brutal. I had a real difficult time with that one. I have another argument w/ Ginny planned for Harry, but I feel like there's enough angst in this one, so maybe not. PLEASE review. I need help here, guys. I still don't know where this is going. But, I have a week off of school, so I'll have time to write while at home.


	6. Double Feature: Double Fights

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry sat in the sitting room of the Burrow that night with a book on his lap. He stared at the pages, not seeing them, but focused instead on memories of everyone's faces when he had been talking to his uncle.

Ron and the rest of the Weasley brothers were a mix of shocked and angry, Ginny, Tonks and Mr and Mrs Weasley seemed to be having a bout of blind rage towards either him or his family. Remus hadn't revealed any emotion but sadness.

What would Sirius have thought? asked a part of his mind. He forced that part away as his eyes began to burn and his throat swelled, as images of the Veil floated around him. Neither can live while the other survives… Stay away from those thoughts… There's no point in them; remembering only hurts. Still, he thought, hurting is better than forgetting.

Nonetheless, he shoved the thoughts away again, trying to ignore their persistence. Why did Sirius have to linger in every thought? It wasn't fair that Harry had lost him, wasn't right. He went over what had happened that day, the events whose backlash he could still change, and his uncle's words.  
_  
"Say what ever you want to me, but this isn't the Weasleys' fault—" he had said softly, not quite meeting his aunt's eyes. His uncle was standing by his wife, looking furious. Harry wasn't afraid of being hit, not anymore, and nothing his uncle could do would be anything compared to the Cruciatus three days ago or in fourth year._

_"That's right, it's your fault!" she yelled. He flinched, not at her words but at her volume. The whole house could hear her, just as they could hear Sirius's mother in Grimmauld Place. Sirius could've known what to do…_

_"This isn't the Weasleys' fault. Please don't take it out on them." _

Then, Remus came in, just on cue, right after his uncle broke his nose.

Remus was so sad that Harry… had let this happen, maybe, had let his only family hate him…

He jumped when he heard the door open. He spun, and after wincing from the twinge of pain the sudden movement induced, he tried a smile at Ginny as she sat down.

"You had a good day," she observed sarcastically. He snorted. Good day, indeed.

"Mum nearly had an aneurysm when she saw your uncle swing at you. She shouted at Dumbledore for almost an hour. I've never seen anyone have a go at him like that." He shifted awkwardly; embarrassed she saw what she did. Ginny told Professor Dumbledore what happened as Harry healed. Now everyone knew. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel guilty for getting the Dursleys into trouble.

"Look, it's not a big deal. He just loses his temper sometimes. It's my fault really. I should've ducked as I always did. I mean, he usually fed me and gave me a place to live, at least. He only tried to throw me out once." Ginny looked at her hands.

"Did he do that a lot?"

"What, throw me out? No, just once, and Dumbledore convinced my aunt I needed to stay."

"No, did he hit you a lot? You said you usually ducked."

"Oh," he said, looking away again. Stop revealing things to her! he berated himself. "Well, I always deserved it. It's nothing, anyway."

"You were just a kid! It's not your fault your uncle revealed his own secret."

How did Ginny do that, know what he was thinking, what he felt? "It was nothing," he repeated in a smaller voice, unwilling to admit how much it bothered him. Why should it? It was the way things were; it didn't matter, and it wouldn't change.

"Nothing!" Ginny demanded indignantly, almost resentfully. "Harry, he broke your nose, if you've looked in a mirror you'd see your bruises. Your burn, I don't even know how that happened, but it left a scar! And you insist it was nothing, that we should sweep it under the carpet and pretend it never happened!" He felt her glaring at him as she stood to rant at him in a still-hushed voice.

He glanced at his back on the left side; the baggy, outsized collar, which smelled faintly of smoke, did lay bare a bit of the warped flesh on his shoulder blade. He looked back at her, his own anger stoked, rising. He wasn't aware of the hand that pulled his shirt over the scar as she followed his movements with her eyes.

"It's not a great situation, but I survived there for fifteen years almost!" he said in the vehement whisper they were using too shout at each other. She scoffed and roiled her eyes dramatically, not shifting from her defensive stance.

"You shouldn't fight for survival with your own family! Why is it you are so protective of everyone else, but can't let that same common decency apply to you?"

"Because it doesn't!" he almost yelled. He realized who and where he was, and who he was arguing with. "I mean…" he began again, in a whisper, though he hated how broken he sounded."It's just me." His tempers quit on him, letting him deflate. He looked down again, shamefaced.

"It breaks my heart to hear you say that, Harry. Why shouldn't it apply to you?" she asked. He looked at her, and saw her nearing to tears as she stood in front of him.

"It doesn't apply to me because I'm nothing but trouble. I got Sirius killed; I got Cedric killed... By extension, you could say my parents are dead because of me, too. None of them would have been touched if I hadn't been there."

"None of those deaths were your fault," she pointed out. "Your parents were in the first Order. Voldemort would have killed them for being so involved. Sirius fought, too."

"What did Cedric do?" he asked miserably. "He was only seventeen; he had his whole life ahead of him. I told him to take the Cup. I said he deserved it. And it led him to his death. If I'd listened to him—he said just take it. If I'd listened, he would've been fine. I told him to, told him to take the Cup, I told him we'd share the win." Ginny knelt in front of him and took his hands in his.

"It's not your fault, Harry. You didn't know. You are the gentlest, kindest, most softhearted person I know. You would never intentionally harm anyone. No one blames you for anything. How could they? I don't lay the blame on you for anything, either." He turned away, pulling his hands back, unwilling to accept that little bit of comfort, of intimacy. He would have to harm someone, somebody. He'd have to kill Voldemort one day, one day soon.

"I'm sorry you had to see what you saw today," he said in less than a whisper, less than an undertone. She took his hands again, her fingers soft and gentle. Harry wanted to lean into her, wanted to let her take care of him. That's stupid, he thought. No one had ever taken care of him; why would Ginny?

"I'm sorry you had to grow up like that," she replied just as softly. He felt his annoyance flare up again. He looked her straight in the eye, her brown ones filled with an emotion he wanted to leave him alone, even if he couldn't name it.

"It was nothing!" he said with, perhaps, an unnecessary amount of vehemence. She smiled sadly, her full lips twisting.

"Then why apologize to me?"

* * *

Harry still couldn't believe his friends had seen what they saw. It had been four days since, and everyone was still tiptoeing around him as if he might shatter. It didn't help; it put him on edge. Almost everyone was tiptoeing, that is.

Ron didn't tiptoe, but Harry was uneasy around him for another reason. Ever since their fight, from which Harry had fled before truly resolving anything, he'd been feeling… odd around him.

He noticed the way he moved, the way he tugged at his shirt hem when bored or nervous, the way he brushed his too-long hair from his face.

It was like how he noticed Cho, but this couldn't be the same thing. Could it? Cho was just a pretty girl; they'd fallen out as soon as they began to know each other. Ron was a bloke, for starters. And he was a bloke Harry knew.

He couldn't be developing a crush on him; you don't crush on people you know. Did you? Well, Harry knew Ron was crushing on Hermione, but that was different, Hermione wasn't his best friend. Hermione wasn't a bloke. No, he couldn't be crushing on Ron. It had to be something else. Something similar to a crush, but not as stupid or pointless or as disturbing as the idea of liking a bloke.

As if he wasn't weird enough. He knew that most of the Gryffindors in his year didn't like the idea of gay people, and it wasn't as though the Dursleys were the epitome of tolerance. He knew it wasn't normal, or remotely OK. Hermione didn't mind it, but she was overly-into equal rights, with everything from house-elves to ex-cons.

Harry walked into the kitchen of the Burrow, looking for Ron. He found Mrs. Weasley instead. She was chopping potatoes while pots prepared broth without help behind her.

"Hello, Harry, dear," Mrs. Weasley welcomed as he entered. Her cheeks were slightly flushed; he guessed she was upset about something. He hoped she wasn't upset with him.

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley," he said. She wiped her hands on a towel partially tucked inside of her apron, and she came around the counter to talk to him.

"I have some bad news," she began. He looked down. He didn't want bad news right now, bad news led to worries, worries led to questions. He hated questions.

"Well, Professor Dumbledore sent Arthur and me a letter," she began, drawing a scroll from her apron. "It's about you and the Dursleys. He wants you to go back there."

"He wants Harry to go back there?" asked Ron from the doorway leading into the sitting room. "After what happened with them? He's that thick?"

"Now, Ronnie, that hardly appropriate. I'm sure he has his reasons." Despite talking to her son, Harry could feel her eyes on him, trying to gauge his reaction.

"Harry doesn't need to be there, Mum, and you know it!" Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips anxiously, nodding

"I do. But it's what Professor Dumbledore thinks is best. He'll be stopping by after dinner, and we'll smooth out everything then." Mrs. Weasley patted Harry's shoulder awkwardly, and then rounded the counter to finish their dinner.

Ron followed him out of the kitchen. "Harry, what are you going to do?" He sighed. As much as he was his friend, he really didn't want to talk about this. In fact, he didn't really want to talk much at all.

"Dunno, Ron," he said, trying to brush him off without hurting his feelings or making him mad. He wasn't very successful, he guessed, as Ron exhaled vociferously. He continued across the sitting room, and started out the front door.

The taller boy grabbed Harry's shoulder to make him stop walking and face him. Ron planted himself in front of his best mate, who refused to stop moving away, placing both hands on his arms. Harry pulled away, trying to ignore the tingles where he touched him, telling himself it was merely cold out, ignoring the shivers, but stayed.

"Harry, you don't have to go back if you don't want to!"

"Professor Dumbledore's got enough on his mind without taking into consideration what I want," he argued. He didn't want to go back to the Dursleys, he'd rather have a nightmare featuring Voldemort murdering a kitten or taunting him. "If he thinks it's best—"

"How can you not stand up for yourself, especially after everything he's done to you?"

"Why do you have to?"

"Because you won't!" Ron shouted. Harry looked away, and silence drifted between them.

"Your life would be a lot easier if you didn't bother with me," he muttered.

"No shit," Ron snapped. He looked away, shaking his head. What seemed like an hour passed, but, Harry knew, was only a minute, two at the most. "Sometimes I wonder," he began.

"Wonder what?" he prodded after a moment.

"What would've happened to you had you not been 'the Harry Potter', and just been, y'know, Harry. If you had your mom and dad tell you that you're worth defending, that you're as amazing as you are."

"It doesn't do to dwell on dreams," Harry said sadly, looking away. Professor Dumbledore had told him that once, and he was right. Looking back never helped, Harry had to focus on what he had to do, not what he wanted to do, not what he needed.

"It's always fun," Ron told him, his voice a mixture of wistful and fierce.

* * *

A/N: Cow-a-bunga! Double chapter! Hermione will be entering the story shortly, don't worry. I'm thinking of showing a confrontation between Harry and Dumbledore, but I can't decide if I should, or how angry Harry should be if I do. So, I'll (literally) leave it to you. It's time for my first poll. Options: (1) A confrontation, fierce with harsh words but no violence. (2) No confrontation, but Harry rants to R&H (&Ginny?) or (3) Some other option I haven't thought of. LET ME KNOW ASAP!


	7. Chapter 7: Clear

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

_Harry-_

_If you don't want to talk to me that's fine, but you can't just ignore everyone! Just write back to Ginny or Hermione, they've been worried sick. You have to write to one of us, to let us know you're OK._

_And I want to apologise for yelling at you. Going back to the Dursleys was your decision, and I was just pushing you when you needed time to think. Somehow, I thought I was helping. I'll let it alone._

_You're my best friend, too, Harry. I need you to talk to me. We didn't stop off on a good note, and you left without a proper goodbye on my part. Anyway, I guess there's not much to say, but if you don't write to someone, I'm seriously going to be very angry with you. A Horntail will pale in comparison to what's waiting for you at home, at Hogwarts, or even the Burrow, depending on if when I see you. Because these places are your real homes, we're your real family._

_Write, even if it's not to me, your friend,_

_Ron_

* * *

Ginny stared at Harry as he gazed out the window of the Hogwarts Express. He hadn't removed his jacket since he met the Weasleys and Hermione at King's Cross Station, and they were nearing Hogsmeade now. Hermione was looking for Neville and Luna, while Ron was trying to get some food off the twins. That left the two of them in the compartment.

Alone.

They hadn't been alone since the day before Harry left for the Dursleys. She was angry with him, like Ron was, for just going, without trying to find out why he had to go back to the home he hated. The fact he hadn't removed his jacket was also annoying her.

"How was your holiday?" she asked, tired of not speaking with him already, though they weren't even at Hogwarts yet. He shrugged.

"It was alright, I guess," he said quietly, looking at her. His eyes seemed emotionless, like they always did after he was alone at the Dursleys for more than a week.

"Any reason why you're not taking off your jacket?" she prodded gently, raising an eyebrow. He half-smiled.

"Noticed that, then?" he asked shyly. She could feel his awkwardness; it made her uncomfortable it was so apparent. A few beats passed as she sat across from him as he looked out the window.

"Did you plan to take it off?"

"No, I didn't," he said. He met her eyes, and she knew she should probably do a better job of hiding her concern. He shifted in his seat across from her, and then slid off the jacket.

Littering his thin arms were bruises, then most apparent being the hand shaped ones on his wrists. The titanic, slack collar on his shirt showed his burn-scar and another hand shaped bruise on his neck. She gasped.

"Don't say anything, Gin. Please, the questions are worse than the beatings." She looked up into those extraordinarily green eyes, and saw some sort of emotion she couldn't place on Harry. She was so used to knowing what people were feeling, it was strange to be confused by Harry.

She looked away. "Put your jacket back on." He did, and she could feel his gaze on her as she stared out the window.

"It's not as bad as it seems," he murmured after a moment. She looked at him, his mended glasses and wan face. She noticed an old, yellowed bruise framing his mouth, a red gash adorning his neck.

"Even then," she replied unenthusiastically. "It's still pretty bad, Harry."

"It's nothing. It hardly hurts anymore," he said in a reassuring tone. "I'm used to it." A chill of unease ran through her. No one should have to get used to that.

* * *

Harry lay in his bed, thinking. Ginny hadn't said outright what she intended to do about the obvious beatings, but then she might still tell Professor Dumbledore what was going on. He prayed she wouldn't. Professor Dumbledore knew what was going on, he still sent Harry back there year after year.

Sending Harry back to the Dursleys for the last weeks of summer hols, from a week before his sixteenth birthday to 30 August, was an attempt to invoke the blood magic once more. Harry had a sinking suspicion he had broken it for good when he went on his little digression to Vernon about family…

He couldn't even remember what he'd said exactly, just something about how angry he was about being mistreated all these years. Then he single-handedly caused the wards to crash. Stupid Harry, he could ruin anything and everything by showing others how he felt, didn't he know that by now?

If he wasn't a Gryffindor, wearing his foolish heart on his sleeve, the people he loved might be left alone.

If he'd done a better job of concealing his familial love for Sirius, maybe Voldemort wouldn't have killed him. Maybe if he learned Occlumency, shielding his feelings and mind, he could defeat Voldemort… Either must die at the hand of the other…

He tried to calm down as he began to hyperventilate. He had to breathe easy, had to stop thinking of it in an overwhelming sense of his needing to save the whole world, wizarding and Muggle. It was too much. He had to think of it as saving a few people, his friends: Hermione, Ginny, the Weasleys, and Ron. He could handle that, he'd done it before…

Exasperated, he flipped the covers off him, rising from bed. He put on his glasses, glancing at the clock. Six thirty-three in the morning, about thirty minutes before Ron's alarm clock woke the dorm. Well, he'd have an early start to the day, despite not sleeping well.

Harry came back from his shower, and noted that all of his dorm-mates were still asleep. Ron had clearly leaned out of bed to turn off his alarm; he now lay with his head on the floor, and the rest of him on the bed, the lamp cord stuck on his finger, having pulled the light on accidentally. Harry stifled a chuckle; his six-foot-plus friend looked silly, too small PJ's, mouth open, sleeping.

Harry grabbed a set of handmedowns from the new trunk he had purchased in Diagon Alley with the Weasleys and a few Order members as escorts. He pulled his pyjama shirt off, reaching for his favortie long-sleeved t-shirt, one that almost fit. He intended on fully enjoying the one day off before classes tomorrow, even if his morning was booked with a "visit" to the infirm to be healed up for the start of term.

"Blimey, Harry!" Dean's voice sounded from behind him. "What happened to you?" Harry spun, looking at Dean, then following his gaze. Dean was staring at the bruises that marred Harry's thin torso. He pulled his shirt on, avoiding Dean's gaze. "What happened, Harry?" he repeated. Seamus sat up tiredly, and noticed the look on Dean's face. Seamus followed his friend's gaze to see Harry standing there, now clothed, red as a beet.

"Just drop it, alright, Dean?" he asked, knowing Dean was a bit of a gossiper. Even if Ginny kept her peace, the whole school would know in a few weeks at the most. Dean looked away.

"Yeah, right," he said undecidedly. Neville stirred, and the boys continued to dress in silence.

* * *

"How bad has it been since I last visited?" Poppy Pomfrey asked, running her hand over his left arm. He'd broken it five days ago and it was the cause of her last visit to Mrs Fig's house to heal him. They had decided she's only come if he Flooed her, because Hogwarts professors, usually those in the Order, stopped in to see him almost every other day, making sure he was still alive.

"Better than I thought," he said, wincing as she pressed on his ribs. "Are those broken?"

"I'll tell you if they are if you tell me what happened," she said, marking the (broken) ribs on her chart in his embarassingly thick file.

"Stairs," he said. She frowned at him, picking up her wand to heal him.

"I thought we were past the point where you made stupid, obvious lies about every injury. I know it was your uncle, you know," she said. He gasped at the stabbing pain of re-solidifing bone.

"I was being honest," he said. "My uncle did throw me down the stairs." She sighed, unsure if she should be pleased with that honesty or not.

"What did you do?" she asked, moving on to his other side. She waited for his answer as she spread a balm meant to help prevent pain from his bruises.

"Nothing, really. He was drunk, it wasn't a big deal. I broke the banister though," Harry said, gesturing at the cut on his leg. Poppy pushed his boxers up a bit higher, judging how far along the infection was.

"How bad has it been?" she asked again. Harry sighed this time as she summoned antibiotics for his leg.

"On a scale of one to ten, it was probably a six," he said, wincing as the potion cleared the infection.

"Why was it a six?" she asked, handing him back his clothes, finished healing.

"It was normal. He was angry all the time, she was too scared to do anything... Dudley stayed at Peirs house for the most part," he said, pulling on his trousers. As she watched him un-inside-out a sleeve, she noticed the gash from the well-aimed Diffindo still resting on his neck.

"Hold on," she ordered. He froze, looking down at his chest. He looked back up at her as she moved closer to him. She raised a hand to feel his neck—if the cut was still there, it was a possibility his artery was still only partially healed—and he flinched back.

"Sorry," he said, sitting back up on the bed in her private exam room. "Force of habit, I know you won't actually hit me."

"Your... It should be healed by now!" she said, reaching for her wand to run a scan. He raised a hand to the reddish scab, rubbing it as if trying to erase it.

"It's not a big deal. I mean if it hasn't reopened by now, we should be in the clear," Harry insisted as she waited for the spell to take effect. "What are you doing?"

"Stress test," she said. "I'm making your heart beat a bit stronger, to see if the artery will leak or burst."

"Well, I always say," he laughed. "If you're going to bleed uncontrollably, do it next to a trusted Healer surrounded by potions."

Poppy couldn't help but think that was a sad joke for him to make.


	8. Chapter 8: Lessons

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry sat at Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, buttering a piece of toast. He wasn't particularly hungry, but he knew he should eat something. There weren't too many people in the Hall, but it was only eleven, not close to the average lunch. He had been avoiding his friends, though he'd been with Poppy all morning so it hadn't been very hard.

Ginny sat beside him, giving him a slight hip check as she did. "Hey there," she said cheerfully. He smiled at her, and noticed her hair pulled back away from her face somehow, her shirt's top buttons left undone.

See, you noticed stuff about Ginny, he told himself. You're just being observant, you're not crushing on Ron.

"Hey, Gin. Just getting up?" She nodded, sipping his pumpkin juice. "Sleep well?" he asked, turning to his toast, hoping he wasn't blushing.

"As always," she responded brightly. "How did you sleep?"

He shrugged. "I slept fine, I suppose." She scoffed flippantly, shaking her head as she grabbed a piece of toast from his plate. When he protested, she interrupted.

"Butter another," she said in a mocking voice, taking a bite. He shook his head and did so. "And I'm sure you sleep just magnificently," she said, her mouth still full of toast.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," he said, pretending to scold her. She laughed and then he mulled over her words for a moment. "Why the sarcasm?" he asked slowly, tentatively.

Ginny had a way of going to a subject via a route no one else would consider. This could be a subject introduction from his bruises she saw on the train—he still didn't know what possessed him to show her— or the fact he didn't really sleep well at all. Between worrying, nightmares with Veils, and Ron's snoring (which must be getting worse, it was so loud), it was next to impossible.

"You have circles under your eyes," she pointed out. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?" He didn't reply. "Ha-ha. I win, I'm right."

"Being right doesn't mean you win," he said softly in the general direction of his plate. She glanced sideways at him as he took a mouthful of his toast. He knew he probably shouldn't have said that. Ginny could already read him like a book, he didn't need to give her little comments like that to dissect and use to read past his guarded façade.

He didn't think he could prevail against Voldemort, and he knew he was in the right. He met her eyes carefully, and he was sure she saw something behind his guarded face, something that puzzled her. He knew it was her seeing his worry of his role in the prophecy, which she didn't know he knew. In effort to lighten the suddenly bleak mood, he twisted his neck, it cracked loudly and she laughed.

"Oh! Harry! That's disgusting!" she cried. He grinned and she giggled. Hermione plopped down across from them, and Harry realized he and Ginny were both grinning like idiots.

"What's going on?" asked Hermione. "If you two are planning a prank, I'm not being a lookout or ordering any WWW stuff in my name."

Ginny smirked and said, "Harry was being unintentionally funny." He was about to retort with something unbelievably witty that would shut Ginny down, as her raised brow was daring him to, when Professor McGonagall appeared beside them in the now-crowding Great Hall.

"Here are your timetables, classes begin tomorrow," she said, papers in her arms, a slightly bored, yet still strict, expression on her face. She riffled through the pile, and handed the proper timetable to the right person. She was about to move on when she said, "Where is Mr Weasley?"

"He's asleep yet, Professor, I can pass it along," Harry said politely. Professor McGonagall handed another timetable to Harry, one with two open periods on Mondays.

"Also, Harry, Albus has asked to see you privately in his office at noon-thirty," she murmured. "Have you seen Poppy yet?"

"Yes, ma'am. Spent the morning with her. She mentioned that you did a bang-up job on my wrist," he responded equally softly. He wouldn't have been able to balance his aunt's checkbook unable to write because of a broken wrist, and Professor McGonagall had healed him perfectly, saving him a beating.

Harry placed both down on the table as the teacher moved on and looked at his plate. Both pieces of his toast were gone. "Ginny, did you steal my toast again?" he asked, knowing the answer.

"I did indeed. Hey, Harry, do you like my hair? Hermione braided it earlier." He looked at the flaming red braid running down Ginny's scalp and to her waist.

"I do," he said, not telling her that he liked it because it showed off her collarbones in a way her normal cascade did not, even when in a half ponytail whose tie always broke in her thick hair by the end of the day.

To avoid the question that would make it necessary to make up a reason to like her hair other than that, he looked over his own timetable, resting his chin in his hand. He had signed up to the same classes as Ron, merely for convenience, and had expected them to have the same time arrangements, as they were in the same house and chosen the same levels.

Straight off, Harry noticed the two double-spares Ron had marked down on Mondays were full, marked off as "Extra-curricular Defence". He moved Ron's table over and compared them: where Ron had Care of Magical Creatures on Wednesdays and Thursdays, he had "Continued Existence 101", which sounded like something Professor Dumbledore would invent as a bit of a joke in a serious situation.

"You're frowning," Ginny said, her unasked question hanging in the air: why?

"No spares," he said vaguely. It's for the prophecy, he realized. Harry glanced up at Professor Dumbledore, absently running his thumb over the raised scab on his throat. He was talking benignly with a new Ancient Runes teacher, not looking at his confused pupil. Theses classes are for survival.

"Professor," Harry said by way of greeting, shutting the office door with perhaps a bit more force than nessasary. He entered the blue office, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes as he sat in a soft purple chair at the elder's beckon.

"Tea? Lemon drop?" he asked. Harry shook his head, looking up. He knew he should get control of his anger before he spoke to someone with the respectable position the Headmaster had.

"No, sir. I want to know what you want from me," he clipped. Professor Dumbledore nodded.

"Of course, Harry. I want to explain why I sent you back to the Dursleys this summer. And every summer past, come to think," he said, adding the last with a chuckle, his blue eyes twinkling.

"No need, sir. I know why you sent me back. I needed protection from the outside—Voldemort, Death Eaters, everyone else I've pissed off bad enough to want to kill me... I get that. What I don't understand, sir," he vented, not really caring that he was being very rude, "is why you didn't move to plan B when you realized I needed protection from the inside, and why you didn't make the move years ago!"

"There was no plan B," Dumbledore insisted apologeticlly, speading his hands in gesture of sincerity. "By the time I realized, it was too late to—"

"Too late? Too late?" Harry demanded. "I was four when the beatings started! Everything else was from before I can remember, before I could talk I'll bet. When does it become too late to save a child?"

"With all due respect, sir, I don't understand how you could allow him to do what he did!" Harry continued. "The scars won't ever fade, the ones you can see and the ones you can't."

"Harry, it can't have been that bad—"

"That bad?" Harry repeated incredulously "Since when is child abuse rated on a scale of one to ten? Have you ever been hit with the buckle side of a belt? Ever been called Freak so frequently you're convinced that's your name? Had to drop out of school at the age of bloody seven to protect the secrets at home? How can you decide when abuse gets bad enough to do something?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "There's no way that's right. No way, even if the kid had murdered his parents themself."

"I knew you were strong enough to endure, stronger than others. Besides, if you hadn't been beaten the way you were you'd be too sure of yourself now, to willing to reward yourself. The chances of you turning dark would be so much higher—"

"And were less as a emotionally-stunted kid with a damn good reason to hate you, leader of the rebellion, it that it? After all, neglect couldn't have been what turned Riddle, no, it was his perfect childhood with loving guardians. You didn't create a worse situation for me and by some fluke happen to have things work out!"

"I knew you were better than Tom Riddle; I knew you'd survive!"

"Right, because I'm the Hero. The Golden Boy. The one who is expected to save the world, all because of a prophecy. It isn't fair, sir. All you want is my strength. And I'm tired of it. I don't have any strength left to give anymore."

"You have so much strength, Harry, so much power you're not using," Dumbledore argued, pressing Harry back into his chair. I didn't realize I'd stood up, Harry thought, pulling away from Dumbledore's fatherly hand. "With the right training, the right instruction, the right mentors—everything that happened will have protected you from Voldemort. In the end, it'll be for the greater good."

"But you think the greater good is a risk-benefit ratio. And people aren't people, they're pawns. I realized that that word was a huge part of your internal vocabulary long ago. We're all pawns!" Harry cried, standing again. He moved from the desk and away from Dumbledore. "Pieces of the puzzle in the world of 'the greater good'. I hate that phrase, and I'm not willing to find out how far you'll go before you realize the people you hurt."

"Harry, I never meant to hurt you—"

"Just humble me, right?" Harry demanded, aware that was a rhetorical. He stood, all but running to the door, gripping the handle so tightly his knuckles stung. "Just push me to break? The only reason I don't just give up is because innocents have to depend on me because a megalomaniac you hurt then has decided to kill the kid you hurt now. I'm more akin with the Dark than the Light, but I won't turn, no thanks to you."

* * *

Hermione sat in Defence against the Dark Arts, DADA, in wait for the new Defence teacher. He, or she, wasn't at the sorting feast, and Dumbledore hadn't given a hint as to who it could be.

Harry was sitting beside her, yawning. He was reading his textbook, and he was on chapter nine, one on wordless shields. I'm not the only one who read ahead this year, she thought. Ron was still unprepared; he was peeling the price sticker off the dust jacket of the book. He wasn't even doing a very good job of that, the paper was threatening to rip beneath his large, calloused hands.

She leant over and helped him strip the sticky label. Harry nudged her a moment later, causing her to look up.

A brunette witch had entered, wearing vibrant blue robes. Hermione could see her eyes were a clear, golden-honey colour, unusual as Harry's bright green. With tanned skin, a razor-edge nose, and the pouty lips of a model, the woman could be beautiful, despite the grey shooting in at her dark brown temples and the crow's feet at her eyes. Hermione thought, if she took off her reading glasses and let me get a clear look, I could decide. The woman nodded happily, as she observed her Gryffindor and Hufflepuff charges.

"Good day, kiddies. I'm Professor Kane, and I'm, obviously, the DADA teacher. I've heard the job is cursed, but I plan to break that curse and stay for a whole year without accident, incident, or, I dunno, measles."

Harry was completely still. Ron was making an aeroplane with the sticker. Hermione had no opinions to consider yet, only that the woman, Professor Kane, seemed a smart mix of joking and strict.

Which was good, it made for a good learning environment, didn't it.

Hermione noted roll call had gone almost without a hitch; Kane paused for an inordinate amount of time before saying Harry's name.

They went around the room sharing a story or two, so the professor could get to know them. Kane had called on Harry as she went down the rows, asking him about his childhood adventures. He had glanced at Hermione, unsure. She nodded him on.

"I live with my aunt and uncle, and I went to a Muggle school with my cousin before I came here. It wasn't that fun." Professor Kane waited, expecting more from a boy who had a Prophet-earned reputation of being a rebellious, attention-seeking star. When she realized real-life-shy Harry was done, she moved on to Hermione who told them a bit about her schooling, Muggle and magical, and that she wanted to be an Auror or Healer when she graduated.

Ron said he liked the Cannons, Quidditch, food, and wanted to be an Auror when he grew up as well. Professor Kane saw the correlation with the two beside Harry, and tried again to coax him out of his very thick and stubborn shell.

"Let me guess, you three are friends who plan to work together as Aurors, am I right, Harry?" Harry paused before answering.

"I've got some stuff I got to do before I think of the future, Professor. I wouldn't know."

Hermione couldn't help but think the answer was different from what Harry, Ron and she had decided ages ago.

Ron certainly thought so.

"I thought we were going to be Aurors together, Harry. Did you change your mind?" Ron asked, sounding put out despite not trying to. The three passed through crowds on their way to their next shared class of the day, which was Herbology. Hermione glared at Ron over Harry's head. Don't reprimand him, he's in that stupid shell of his since he got back from the Dursleys, coax him out.

Ron glared back. What am I supposed to do? Once he's gone he's gone.

"I have to get rid of Voldemort. Before I can think of anything else, I have to do that. But when—if I do—" Hermione didn't like the fact he corrected himself at that point. "—why would I want to keep fighting Dark wizards? By then I'll have seen so much death and pain and… why would I want more of that?"

"You don't have to defeat him, Harry. That's what the Order's for, that's why we're fighting too."

"In the end?" Harry insisted, looking down at… up at her. When did that happen? I wasn't taller than he was last year, was I? Hermione had been taller than Harry had been in fifth year, and every year since third, she realized. Ron was six foot four; Hermione was five foot seven, which put Harry at… Less than five foot two, maybe even not quite five feet. "Who will it come down to? Me and him."

Harry sounded positive, as if he knew this. Hermione's analytical mind flashed on the prophecy from last year, the one that was destroyed. Was this the conclusion Harry had jumped to while wondering why it was so crucial?

Ron looked over Harry's short head at her, confused. She shrugged at him, rather flattered that he looked to her for advice on matters not involving schoolwork. She took the subtle complement, and the initiative to ask Harry about it.

"What are you talking about? You can't know that," she said matter-of-factly. Something flashed in Harry's eyes, and, for a second, Hermione thought he was going to tell them what made him so certain. But then, it was gone and Harry pulled back into his own mind.

"You're right, I can't know for sure."

* * *

Ron knew there was something going on with Harry. It might be the Dursleys or You-Know-Who, but it was something. He and Hermione were debating how serious this could be during the final class of the day, Hermione's only spare in the week, and his second on Monday.

"If he's worried enough that he's not telling us, we need to push him to open up, he has to know he can trust us." Ron shook his head as the final bell rang, signalling the end of the day. Hermione was pulling on a curl that fell free of her braid, something she did when she was nervous.

"I dunno, Mione. Harry's not one to talk too much and he don't like to be pushed. I think you're setting yourself up for a fall with that one." She furrowed her brow and gave him a fleeting glare.

"I am not! If we just tell him we're concerned, he'll come out from his own little world, and—"

"Hermione, think about Harry. No, listen," he said, holding up a finger as she opened her lips to protest. "Think about anytime something's been upsetting him. When has he ever responded to our pushing? Think about what Harry's actually like, not the picture of him you've built up in your head."

He winced inwardly as people began filing into the common room. The two felt rather lucky they'd had final period off, especially Ron. He'd hoped he would've been able to do something to Hermione, like brush that damn adorable curl behind her ear, and then gauge her reaction. He couldn't do that now; he didn't want people saying they were a couple before they were a couple.

He really wanted to be a couple; he had a huge crush on his best friend, and after dating Lavender steadily and going to Hogsmeade or Quidditch games or having lunch with this girl and that, he knew she was what he wanted. She pushed him to do better than his best, and none of the other girls had. Plus, he didn't want to be around those other girls as much as he could. He wanted Hermione to be around him all the time.

He still worried, though, that she would be way out of his league: smart, determined, beautiful, graceful, and tactful. Everything, in short, that he wasn't. He hoped that that would make them compatible. Ginny said opposites attract, after all.

Maybe that was why his intelligent and pretty sister had gone out with gits like Dean and that Corner kid. He didn't know why she just didn't ask Harry out. Sure, Harry never appeared interested, but Harry had a way of never appearing interested. Ron had had no idea he liked Cho Chang (another fine example of idiot his friends seemed to go out with), and he ended up dating her for a few weeks.

At least Harry and Cho fell apart without a major fight (according to Harry, a more reputable source than the gossip chain), and not with the whiplash that his sister caused with any boy (according to Ginny, a more reputable source than the grapevine).

"Ron! Are you listening to me?"

"Um, no, I kinda spaced out there," he said, making an apologetic face.

"I'll say," she grumbled, rolling her eyes as the common room filled to the brim. "Where's Harry?" Hermione craned her neck, looking for their short friend's messy black hair and pale face, ignoring the second years his height. My, god, she has the most beautiful neck I've ever seen, Ron thought. Hermione looked back at him, and he realized he didn't answer her.

"I dunno," he said pathetically. "What class did he have?"

"He said it was something with Dumbledore, but he refused to tell me what, just that it was a double period."

"Maybe he didn't know. Weird," he said, looking at Ginny as she sat down on the arm of his chair, her own red hair in a braid identical to Hermione's.

"Not really, it is Harry. Ginny, did your braid stay in?" Hermione said, switching conversations, unaware she'd just given Ron an excuse to stare at her without having to worry about giving a response to whatever inane questions she had.

"Yeah, it did. You were right. Elastic didn't even break. Where's Harry?" she asked, looking from Ron to Hermione. Ron tore his gaze away from his best friend and met his sister's gaze.

"We don't know. He's with Dumbledore," Ron said vaguely, still unsure how much he was allowed to tell Ginny, who was just outside their tightly formed trio. Hermione and she were tight whenever Hermione needed time to speak girl, something Ron refused to do, and Harry didn't know existed, so she probably was up on what they did in any case.

"Oh. Alright, well, Ron, go away."

"Why?!" he demanded, annoyed. Ginny couldn't just send him away like that; besides, it was his conversation she was invading.

"Fine then, Hermione and I will just talk about girly stuff with you there. Did you hear—?"

Ron didn't hear the rest of the conversation, for he'd fled, deciding it'd be high time to find out where Harry was. He really didn't care what Hermione had heard, but he knew it was something gossipy and girly and something that would cause him to blush like an idiot.

Last thing he needed was Hermione thinking he was an idiot.

* * *

A/N; OK, I know that was kinda confusing. I deleted the original chapter seven because I had skipped a part. Enjoy the revision, minor as it was. This chap contains the original chap seven as well as new stuff, supposed to be chap eight but I don't want to have to upload twice more, so here you go.


	9. Chapter 9: Here

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry took a deep breath, and knocked on the door to Professor's office, like the note Fawkes had given him said to. He hated not knowing what to expect, it made him feel vulnerable and unprepared. At least when he was fighting Voldemort he knew to expect pain, taunting and maybe death. Real people, normal people were harder to face.

He hadn't spoken with Dumbledore since their last meeting after his visit with Poppy, where he'd stormed out after venting. It wasn't really appropriate of him, but he felt so betrayed by Dumbledore that he didn't feel that bad about it, really.

After telling the sneering gargoyle the password, lemon liquorice, he'd climbed the staircase, worrying about what waited behind this heavy, oak door.

The door swung open on it's own, revealing the office filled with silver instruments and colourful books.

"Harry! So good to see you!" a greying Remus Lupin said, beaming from near Professor Dumbledore's desk. He smiled at Remus, and felt his smile fade as he nodded at the elder man. Dumbledore smiled at him, and he looked away to Remus, ignoring the tension.

"Hey, Re—er, Professor Lupin." He began to cross the office, still nervous.

"No need to be so formal, Harry," Professor Dumbledore said with a smile. "In these classes, I'll simply be Albus, and he Remus." Dumbledore paused, almost as if he was waiting for confirmation of reconciliation from Harry. So he shrugged impatiently, aware it was a bit of a bad attitude he was putting off.

"Right," he said, not agreeing to anything.

"But this is not my class; this is Remus's and Tonks's. Unfortunately, Tonks has a case of the dragon pox, and won't be up and around for about two weeks."

"She'll be up and around before that, mark my words. Sirius said once or twice that that kid was like rubber, bouncing back just as quick," Remus said mildly. "We're off to the Room of Requirement, Harry. I'll see you at the meeting, Albus."

Harry walked with Remus, going over in his head what had happened that night in the Ministry, how it was his fault Remus had lost his long-time lover. They didn't talk, but Harry was uneasy nonetheless.

"I'm sorry about Sirius, by the way," Remus said as Harry opened his mouth to say the same thing. He paced in front of the room of Requirement. "You were like a son to him, you know that, right?"

"It was my fault. I'm sorry about what I cost you," Harry said, looking down.

"It's not your fault. You didn't shove him through the Veil," Remus said as he pushed a newly made door open. "Last I checked that was dear Bellatrix."

"He wouldn't've been in the Chamber if I wasn't," Harry said stubbornly, looking around the room with a sense of déjà vu. It's the same as the DA room.   "Perhaps. Would you have been there if you weren't under the impression he was?" Remus asked calmly. He went down into the sunken main room, picking up a small, green leather-bound book. Harry followed, ignoring the sense Remus was making.

"I was stupid enough to think he was there."

"Nonsense. When you had a similar vision about Arthur Weasley, you ended up saving his life. When you had the vision of Sirius—"

"I should've known it was a trick. Nothing happens the same way twice," he said, knowing it was true, no matter how much you wished things could just stay as it is: painless.

"If you hit a blind man with a mouse, he can tell it's a mouse. Hit a stubborn man with a hippogriff, and he'll see a mouse if he wants a mouse," Remus said calmly. "I, uh... I'm also sorry he made you go back there."

"Yeah, me too," Harry said, moving towards Remus to glance at the book.

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"I pretty much just yelled then stormed out. He was trying to protect me from Voldemort. Apparently my uncle's the lesser of two evils."

The page Remus was open to had a drawing of a silvery wisp attacking a black shroud. Harry glanced at the writing, but saw it was something other than English, something like Latin, or English-script Greek.

"A Patronus?" he guessed, changing the subject. Something happy seemed to radiate from the silver wisp, countering the evil of the black shroud.

"Yes, but look at the difference between the Dementor and the Patronus. Which looks to be physically stronger?"

"The Dementor, I suppose. It's solid, and it's bigger. What—"

"But who wins between the two?"

"Depends on the memories their fighting over," Harry said, meeting Remus's eager eye. A bright, powerful Patronus could banish any number of Dementors, while one with less behind it would succumb to the weakest of Dark.

"Exactly, Harry, well done!" Remus congratulated him, slapping the book shut and slipping back onto the shelf, moving to another. Harry tried to figure out what he'd said that was praise worthy; he and Remus had gone over Patronuses in his third year. It wasn't anything new.

"The point I wanted to make," Remus said as he flipped pages in a thick red volume, "is that even though the Patronus can look and seem weaker than the Dementor, it can defeat multiple threats with one try. If you have something to fight for, a reason to win, you'll win against the toughest of odds, even if it's your death that spurs the victory, or even invites one more person to your cause. That's why the good guys always win in stories, because they have a reason to."

"So do the bad guys," Harry said, feeling a bit silly because of the diction they were using.

"What's theirs?"

"Power, money, glory. And some of them think their protecting their families by doing what they do, they think they're in the right, or that their making things better, that their crimes will be… cancelled out by the end result. For the so-called greater good," he concluded, thinking of Dumbledore. Remus shook his head, looking up from the book he was now flipping through.

"You're making it too complicated, Harry," he sighed.

"Nothing is ever not complicated," Harry insisted. "There's no simple right and wrong, there isn't a line drawn between two things, or if there is, it's blurry and shifts. The world isn't black and white; it's varying shades of grey. And everyone sees the grey differently."

"What shade is You-Know-Who?" asked Remus, settling on a page.

"Blackest of black," Harry said, without a hesitation or unsure note in his voice. "He's a murderer, a murderer of innocents who kills in cold blood."

"What if someone sees him as white?" Remus asked. "And what if that person seems to be fairly good to you?"

"Then the both of us should re-evaluate the situation, I guess. Depends on who the person is… I don't know. It's not that simple to find an answer. The grey changes."

Remus passed the book to Harry, a small, deep blue one with a cloth binding. Harry looked at the page and saw a liquid torrent of gold streaming from a wand, hitting a man who writhed in obvious agony. Harry was glad this was a rough drawing, not a moving photo, or his stomach would've rebelled. He looked away nonetheless.

"This is the spell I've found for us. The incantation is—"

"Hold on, I'll be using that?" he demanded, looking at the man in the drawing again. Just a man, looking ordinary enough, but for the scream frozen on his face. "I'll be causing someone that?"

"You'll be causing Voldemort that. Just Voldemort. Really, what it is isn't a golden beam, but a mind trick. He's known to invade your mind, so we'll use yours to break his."

"How?" Harry enquired, sounding calmer than he felt. He didn't think his mind was particularly strong, and certainly not more so than Voldemort's.

"See, Harry, your very essence, captured usually in a hair for use in… Polyjuice, for example, is far more potent in your actual mind. If Voldemort, if he…" Remus raised his eyes to the ceiling, thinking. "If he possessed you—"

"It would be excruciating," Harry supplied, "for the one on the receiving end."

"Exactly!" Remus said, looking to the drawing again. "Observant of you, to figure that out from a sketch."

Harry pretended he knew from the sketch, not from experience, and said nothing on that assumption.

"So, the spell will allow me to possess him and shatter his mind?"

"Not exactly, though in theory that could be how this worked. Really, if he invades yours, you can force him out with Occlumency, or hold him in and destroy him with this, using an extreme he can't handle. You said to Dumbledore that his mind, warped as it is by his lack of a moral compass, couldn't tolerate love. Are you extremely sure, Harry, that he can't tolerate it? Understanding and tolerance are very, very different, and in this case, it could be your mind left shattered—"

"He possessed me at the Ministry, and I thought I was going to die. I thought of Ron and Hermione, and how I'd miss saying goodbye, and he reeled back, as if I was causing him the pain that his recollections of killings did me. I love them, Ron and Mione, like family; it was love that forced him out," Harry said, looking at the book Remus still held in his hand. He looked down at the sickening picture, which was less callow than the shocked gaze Remus held to him.

The whole experience at the Ministry was horrible and unfair, but if he could defeat Voldemort with what he'd learned that night, perhaps it'd all be worth it. No, not worth it, not at all, but more… manageable; it would be easier to cope with. "Corny as that… that sounds," he muttered.

"Right," Remus said, recovering and slapping the book shut and leaving it on the shelf. Harry noticed his teacher's scarred face was pale, and his hands shook slightly.

"Well, since we can't really practice the spell itself, which is more your willpower than an incantation, I figured we'd work on defensive spells, curses, and the like… Tonks has the majority of our notes on what we wanted to teach, but what I do have will be enough for the day. Shields, wordless, wandless, ones that are just plain strong," Remus began, and Harry could sense him slipping into the teaching mode he had, where he was encouraging and void of doubt. Harry smiled.

He was in for a lesson from the best Defence teacher he'd ever had at Hogwarts.

* * *

"Where were you last night?" Ron asked Harry as they scrambled to their next class. "You didn't get in till after curfew."

"The lesson went a little long," Harry supplied vaguely. Ron rolled his eyes, tired of the attitude of secrecy from Harry. He had to go back to his Muggle home despite everything, he had a secret worry, and he was now hiding the lessons from his best mate. How thick could you get? Did he think Ron hadn't noticed everything going on with him?

"Meaning you don't know how much you're allowed to tell me," he deciphered.

"Not here," Harry pointed out, gesturing to the crowd around them as they headed to Transfiguration.

"But you will tell me?"

"Maybe. When I figure out what's going on, sure."

"I want a yes, not a maybe."

"Then you'll have to wait, Ron. I can't tell you things that I don't understand yet," he argued.

"You can do anything," Ron muttered. Harry glared up at him, his green eyes flashing.

"No, I can't, Ron! There are plently of things I can't do, and plenty of bad things I can and have done too," he snapped, his eyes showing a fierceness Ron had never seen in anyone before, let alone his introvert best friend. He almost took a step back.

"Right, OK," Ron amended, taken back. Harry shook his head, showing his anger briefly. Ron dodged a running second-year as he asked, "Why get so upset?"

"Undying faith in someone like me is a bad idea, Ron. A very bad idea."

* * *

A/N: I have a free period in school now, so I'll probably get a lot more writing done now, instead of having to squeeze in a couple of sentences during study hall.

P.S. If Circle M is reading this, I miss your reviews!


	10. Chapter 10: Spare

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

"—if you are changing an elemental energy into it's opposite, you need as much energy as it would take to switch it without magic. For this reason, many cannot use this spell. However," Professor McGonagall lectured as she paced the aisles of the classroom.

"I have faith in all of your abilities, even if for a half-success, the mere understanding of the spell will earn you a passing grade. Mind you—"

She stopped in front of a certain student who was note taking from a thick book that was obviously not a part of the Transfiguration class. Ron instantly regretted sitting next to Hermione, leaving Harry with Neville, who was too busy not lighting himself on fire, to help Harry.

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall sighed silkily. "I have no doubt that what you are studying is important, but as it is my class and not—" Harry was still involved in his work, his left hand still flying across the page "—Mr. Potter!"

Harry looked up, surprised. He dropped his quill when he realized he was singled out, running his hand through his hair nervously. "Sorry, I… Sorry, you were saying?" he mumbled, snapping the thick, red book shut.

"Since you seem to be rather complacent," McGonagall snapped, "why don't you demonstrate the spell to Transfigure fire into it's opposite?"

Harry nodded, his face beet-red, grasping his wand in order to point it at the lit candle set in front of him. He glanced at the rune-covered chalkboard and murmured the spell.

Instantly, the fire turned into ice-cold water, flowing from the candle, stilling the melted wax. McGonagall looked honestly taken back. Hermione gasped beside Ron.

"Ron, did you see that? He just reversed the whole of the—"

"Mr. Potter," McGonagall began again. "As you've obviously mastered the spell itself, would you care to explain the spell?" With a flick of her wand, the board erased itself.

"I guess the spell…" Harry began, setting his wand down on his table. He paused, staring at the candle and frowning. "The spell is intended to reverse the goal and purpose of fire, which is to burn sugars and fuel, and turn it into water, which is used by plants and other organisms to create those same sugars and fuels. But if it's meant for opposites, I don't think it's very efficient."

"No?" McGonagall asked, sounding genuinely interested now, and only slightly annoyed.

"No," Harry said, realizing he was digging himself into a hole if he was rude. His blush had faded, but he now smiled at his own stupidity, challenging McGonagall. "I mean, on a purely technical basis, the opposite of fire is the absence of fire, right?"

McGonagall nodded, and he continued. "And fire is an exothermic chemical reaction that breaks down hydrocarbon molecules into smaller molecules such as carbon, carbon dioxide and monoxide, water... so; the opposite of fire would put these basic ingredients together into more complicated molecules. So...the opposite of fire is trees. Or any plant life, really."

Ron never thought he'd see anyone get the best of McGonagall, but it seemed Harry had just done it. The teacher leant against an empty desk and smiled at Harry, shaking her head in amused infuriation.

"Is he right?" Ron asked Hermione, his voice sounding very loud in the silence of the classroom. A few students chuckled nervously, and the Hufflepuffs sharing the class joined in the uneasy laughter.

"I think so… Logically it makes sense, but not every magic is logical—"

"He is right, Mr Weasley, although molecular opposites at that level are easily N.E.W.T.s level. Good job, Potter. You are dismissed from today's class. Take the time to finish the notes you work so strenuously to complete."

* * *

"I thought you said you had no spares," Ginny said, surprised Harry was in the empty common room with her.

"I don't… Professor McGonagall gave me the period off, so I came here…," he said, looking up and blushing. Why does he blush whenever I talk to him? she wondered. The answer lingered in the back of her mind, far enough back that she couldn't find it.

"I didn't know she did that," Ginny mused, sitting at the table across from Harry. He shrugged and turned back to his work. He was reading from a very bulky, reddish book, and taking notes from it. "What are you reading?"

She reached over and pulled a parchment from his hand. She read it, ignoring his protests.

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches.  
Born to those who have thrice defied him,  
Born as the seventh month dies.  
And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal.  
And either must die at the hand of the other,  
For neither can live while the other survives._

Harry snatched the paper before she could read the scribbled notes or Latin-looking incantations beneath the verse. She looked at Harry, who had rounded the table, and was shocked to see anger and fear on his face. Their eyes held each other, and she mulled over what she'd read.

"You're born in the seventh month," she started slowly. He nodded, fear overtaking his anger. Why was he scared of her? Harry wasn't scared of anything, not even Death.

"The Dark Lord marked you," she continued after a short pause, "as his equal. And you have to kill him, or he'll kill you." Harry nodded again, still radiating pure, unadulterated terror. "What is that? A poem or—"

"Prophecy," Harry whispered. "The one we fought the Death Eaters for in fifth year. The one I hid from you, Ron and Hermione, because now that you know, Voldemort would stop at no lengths to retract that information, even if it means shattering your mind and leaving you mad, a shadow of what you once were."

Ginny gasped as pieces clicked into place. "I don't want you to be a shadow, that's why I lied about this. Believe me," he continued, looking down and blushing again. "I hated doing it, hated lying about everything."

She stared at him, realizing why he'd been so troubled lately. It wasn't Sirius's death, or even her ill-fated hopes he'd finally taken a notice in her as more than a friend. It was the seemingly inevitable fact his life would either start or end with murder.

"That sucks," she said, unable to think of anything else to say. He let out a nervous laugh, moving to sit back down across from her.

"Yeah, yeah, it does," he sighed, musing over the red book again.

"Do you plan on telling Ron and Mione?" she asked. He sighed, sitting back in his chair. She stared at his pale, thin neck as it turned to allow his head to glance out the window.

"Hm?" she questioned, missing his answer as she stared. Don't blush, she ordered herself.

"I kind of have to. You'll tell Hermione, I mean, you guys tell each other everything," he pointed out.

"True," she said slowly, noting his fear was gone with her acceptance. "Why were you so scared?"

"I wasn't scared," he said, a bit too quickly. She raised an eyebrow. Harry rubbed his face tiredly. "I was… anxious you would hate me over this—" he gestured to the paper "—and you'd not want to be around someone whose whole chance of survival hangs on whether or not he can summon the courage to murder the man who killed his parents." He shook his head, angry again.

"It sounds like cold blood when you put it that way," he murmured. "I don't want revenge. It won't fix me."

* * *

"Have you told your friends the contents of the prophecy yet, Harry?" Professor Dumbledore asked, peering at Harry as he sat down.

"Yes sir," he answered briefly.

"Good. I have notes for Ron and Hermione here, about training them. If it wouldn't be to much of trouble for you to pass them along after we finish up here tonight." Harry accepted the notes and slipped them into his bookbag at his feet.

"Ginny knows of the prophecy as well, sir," he pointed out.

"Do tell?" the professor asked, clearly surprised. "Just as well. I'll write up on for her now." With a wave of his wand, a third envelope appeared, zooming to join the others in his bag. The letters ruffled, seeming excited to have a new friend, before quieting.

"Good, good. Now, Harry, is there nothing else you'd like to discuss before we begin?"

"Not with you, sir." Harry noticed Professor Dumbledore hesitate before continuing.

"Splendid. Well, then, legimens."

* * *

Shorter, but IT'S CHRISTMAS!! MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL OF MY READERS! I ASKED FOR A GUITAR AND SOME WAL-MART GIFT CARDS!


	11. Chapter 11: Death

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

_To Ronald Weasley,  
It has come to my attention that you have been made aware of a certain prophecy containing details concerning a particular friend of yours. It is crucial you are aware of the risk this shared information may bring to you and to your friends.  
Although I am sure the aforementioned friend will do all in his power to protect you, you must be aware of the enormous responsibility placed upon his shoulders. Thus, I ask you to keep yourself safe and free from harm, avoiding situations were you are extremely distracted, or where you are alone.  
If you were to be captured on account of this information, not only would he be in grave danger, but the rest of the wizarding world would also risk extinction. It is a small step from "No Muggleborns" to "Purebloods Only". From there, "Death Eaters Only" would not shock most.  
Please do all that you can to remain safe, and do more than that to keep the secret safe.  
Yours truly,  
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts_

Ron sat in the hall, legs crossed at the ankles in front of him with Harry after the passing of the letters that night. Hermione and Ron had waited up until nearly ten o'clock in the common room for him. Ron couldn't sleep and Harry had had a nightmare/vision and was trying to calm down. They'd left the dorm to pace the empty walls of a hallway.

"Wanna talk about the dream?" Ron asked, tossing a ball against the wall and catching it as Harry paced the width of the hall. Harry snatched the ball from the air as he crossed in front of its path.

"You died in it," Harry said, sniping Ron's forehead with the ball. He rubbed his forehead as he reached for the ball. As Harry resumed pacing, he resumed tossing.

"That's why you were going apeshit when you woke me up in the dorms," Ron surmised, curiosity not yet satisfied. "What else happened?"

"Pardon me for thinking you were dead. Thank god you hadn't left the dorm yet or I'd have freaked out," Harry said, sinking to the floor across from Ron, accepting an invitation to play catch. "You died violently."

"Let's hope it's not prophetic.

"Map check?" Harry asked. Ron glanced at the Marauder's Map beside him; Filch and Norris were far off, two floors up.

"We're safe. What else happened in the dream?"

"Voldemort tortured us for a while, Cedric's body was on the ground and you joined it. My uncle starred as a Death Eater..." Harry trailed off, tossing the ball back to Ron after an amazing one-handed catch he made without looking. Seeker reflexes, Ron thought, wondering why he didn't have Keeper reflexes just as impressive.

"Do you think you can defeat him?" Ron asked in brutal honesty.

"I have no choice, Ron. I have to defeat Voldemort—at all costs. There is no losing." The obligated tone of Harry's voice concerned Ron, even though he knew why his friend was so worried now. "I just hope my determination is enough."

"It has to be," Ron told his friend, watching him sit in his sweat-stained pyjama's, calming from the adrenaline still.

"I know." He said it more to himself than he did to Ron as he turned and stared out into the wide open corridor. "There is no compromise. I win or I die. Maybe both."

"It's scary how this doesn't freak the shit out of you, you know," Ron commented, resuming the tossing of the ball. Harry shrugged.

"I have had a long time to come to terms with the prophecy, and it's not like I was a kid before," Harry said, eyes glazed as he passed the ball. "Besides, I'm not scared of dying."

"Why not? It's kind of normal to be afraid," Ron pointed out.

"It's not like I have a _real_ reason to live. I don't have a real reason to die, either, but if I die killing him, that's fine by me," the younger boy said, and Ron let the ball roll away in shock.

"You don't care if you die? I do!" he said loudly, nearly shouting. "I'd miss you and I'd be so... Sad!" He sounded like an emotional girl, but he didn't know how else to phrase it. "You're my best mate!"

"You're mine, Ron, but..." Harry trailed off again. "I dunno."

"What the fuck, Harry?"

"What?" Harry demanded, shocked that Ron was cursing directly _at_ him. Ron stood and seized the map, storming off, not really one hundred percent sure why he was so mad. "I'd be wrecked if you died, too!"

"You can't joke about death like that, Harry," Ron said as Harry pushed to his feet, following his friend down the hall.

"I'm not _joking _about it! I'm just not afraid of it!"

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it's inevitable! It's imminent!" he protested, grabbing Ron's shoulder and turning him. Ron wondered why Harry snatched his hand back after letting it linger for a moment. "I respect death, I'm serious about it. But I'm not going to fear it when I could be planning on how to deliver it to him."

* * *

"Hey, Potter!" someone called. Harry sighed, turning to face Malfoy as he moved to his next class, Survival 101 with Remus in the Room of Requirement. He looked over the blond, who was average height but seemed to tower over Harry. "I hear you're getting special lessons."

"Yeah," Harry said with a smile. "How-To-Make-A-Ferret-Shut-Up 101. Quite a useful class, seeing as you try to antagonize me day after day. You know," he added before the other could retort. "Some people are starting to think you like me as more than a friend, all the time we spend together." Harry knew most people didn't think being gay was a bad thing, but he also knew Malfoy Sr. did. He'd use anything to get to Malfoy, even something as stupid as that.

"I'm not gay, Potty, even if you wish I was," he snarled, moving closer to Harry. He shrugged, pretending to accept this.

"Would explain a lot though," he offered. "No girlfriend, always with Crabbe and Goyle... Even your feminine looks!" Malfoy swung his fist and connected with Harry's mouth, grating lip and knuckle against teeth, knocking Harry from his feet as the combination of his heavy book bag and the blow lost him his balance.

"You got your blood on me," Malfoy whined, cleaning his hand with his wand as Harry wiped his own mouth and climbed back to his feet.

"You done?" he asked, hefting his bag. "I've class."

"Whatever, faggot," Malfoy said, stalking off. Harry rolled his eyes, shoving the door to the Room after he rounded the final corner. Malfoy was a waste of time, and now his lip hurt. Why make Malfoy angry when he could better spend his time?

"Hiya, Harry!" Tonks called as he entered. He glanced over at her, surprised. He supposed a month had passed since his first lesson which she missed due to pox, but it hadn't seemed like four weeks had gone by. Time flys when you're training to kill a megalomaniac, I guess, he thought.

"Hey, Tonks," he dropped his bag by a pillar and looked around at the mirror-walled, mat-floored room, taking in all the details. "Where's Remus?"

"Full moon tomorrow," she said. "Today we'll be working on _my_ share of the lesson plan. Remus takes magical stength, Dumbledore takes mental health, and I take physical amazingness!"

"Sounds good," Harry agreed, allowing her to Transfigure his robes into workout clothes. "Are you going to be able to do anything without tripping?"

"Ha, ha, ha," she jeered, coming closer. "Yes, I'll have you know I can actually hold my own in a fight. What? Are you afraid of fighting a _girl?"_

"Got nothing against girls," he laughed. "After all, between you and Hermione I know you can be smart and tough as nails."

"I'm tough as a stale cookie, Harry," she responded. "Let's start by seeing how many push-ups you can do, Mr Seeker."


	12. Chapter 12: Brain

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

"Ron, where's Harry?" Hermione asked as her friend sat across from him. The redhead shrugged adorably, his hair still tousled from bed. His blue eyes were bleary and his freckles formed cute patterns as he yawned. She wasn't sure if he liked her, but she liked him for sure. She'd caught him staring a few times since they'd returned to Hogwarts and she wondered what that meant, other than romantic interest. Maybe she had a giant zit she hadn't noticed. As she thought this she rubbed her nose checking for a bump.

"No idea," he answered with a shrug of a broad shoulder. "He never made it back to the dorms last night. I figure he stayed after class in the Room last night and fell asleep. Something in there will wake him up, don't worry."

"He needs to eat!" she pointed out, rising from her seat in the Great Hall. Ron rolled his eyes.

"Well, since it's the Room of Requirement, if he requires food, he'll get it," Ron retorted, loading his plate with an inordinate amount of scrambled eggs.

"I'd like his company, then, Ronald, since you seem to only be interested in your eggs," she snapped, leaving him at the table. She left the Great Hall, smiling at Lavender as she came in with Seamus, her newest boyfriend. She climbed up to the seventh floor corridor outside the Room. After pausing to catch her breath for a moment, she rounded the corner. There wasn't a door, which seemed odd to her, as unless Harry needed privacy it would be locked but he'd hear her knocking. She tried pacing but the Room gave her nothing.

She went back down to the third floor and to the dorms, looking around before climbing the boy's staircase. She was worried about Harry but there was no sense in starting rumours. She remembered what happened to Jessica Manning, a Hufflepuff, last year when she was spotted climbing these stairs. Albeit the girl was seeing Lee Jordan, a known ladies man, but the rumours regarding whether or not they'd done something other than study were catastrophic.

He wasn't there, his book bag still there from when he dropped it off before Tonks and Remus's class. Just Tonks's class, she thought to herself. Full moon today, so Remus wouldn't have been there.

She pulled back the curtains to Harry's bed and found it empty, untouched from house-elves' bedmaking the night before, the pillow fluffed and the covers perfect. She doubted Harry would make his own bed, let alone that nicely. He made his bed conplusively at the beginning of the year because the Dursleys expected it, but by Christmas he was back to being his normal self all the time.

Where was he? She didn't like the wierd feeling she was getting about Harry's absence. It wasn't like him to not come back to the dorm, or at least to miss breakfast. Maybe he'd hurt himself at the lesson. A broken wrist, collarbone, rib or ankle wouldn't be surprising since Tonks was supposed to have been doing some physical training, and Madame Pomfrey would've made him stay the night to make sure the bone set. Even for stitches he would've needed to stay the night, if only because he and Madame Pomfrey were special friends, and the elder woman almost saw Harry as the son she'd never had, and was maternally over-protective.

She ran back up the stairs, cursing the idiot who invented them as her legs burned, to the infirmary level. She entered and was surprised to see Tonks sleeping in a wooden waiting chair, her face pressed up against the wall outside one of three rooms with doors in the infirmary. Rather unattractive.

She shook the woman's shoulder softly. Tonks jerked awake, saying, "Is he alive?"

"Is who alive?" she asked, watching as Tonks righted herself, rubbing her face.

"Harry. His jugular split during practice last night—there was so much blood! So much... And by the time I got him here he wasn't breathing, and Madame Pomfrey's been shut up in there with him since about seven-thrity last night."

"Is he gonna be OK?" Hermione asked, sinking into her seat, shocked. she remembered Harry saying that, despite what his friend Poppy said, his jugular was fine, tight as a pipe. Pipe broke, she thought. Tonks shook her head.

"No, he's not gonna be OK... Never in my short, multi-coloured life have I thought Harry Potter would be OK, not since I met him. Not once." Hermione bit her lip. "Oh, wait, you meant physically... Oh yeah, he'll be fine."

"He's been in there since last night, how do you know that? Have they told you anything?"

"I don't know squat. I just figured, you know, he's Harry. He has to be OK," Tonks said logically, bobbing her very-blue head, her curly locks falling into brown eyes. Hermione stared, dumbfounded at her lovable friend. Her tanned, beautiful face radiated honesty. Finally, Hermione looked away, rolling her eyes.

"That's truly terrible logic, Tonks," Hermione said, letting her shoulders slump as she leaned back in her chair.

"Yeah, well, what else you got?" Tonks asked. Ron showed up at nine-ten, having realized neither of his two friends would be making it to classes. At noon, the door to one of the private rooms burst open and Madame Pomfrey rushed out of the room, ignoring the friends sitting in the hallway.

"Is he OK?" Ron demanded, following her into the main infirmary area as she dug through a cabinet, a small vial tinkling to the ground, empty, as she pushed it aside. Hermione stood as well, watching the mediwitch as they waited for an answer. She realized she had been slowly walking forwards. She glanced into Harry's room and saw a very pale boy lying on the bed, a red gash from behind his ear to his collarbone, sewn up with black thread. He was still wearing the Duran Duran t-shirt he'd been wearing yesterday, now dyed red, along with the sheets below him. Snape, of all people, was standing about him, taking a pulse and counting under his breath. He looked up as he finished. "Is he OK?" Ron repeated, though he was still talking to Pomfrey down the hall. Snape shook his head at Hermione and yanked the privacy curtain over the bed, closing her view of her best friend with a metallic ring of finality.

It seemed to take hours and hours and hours for news to come. Madame Pomfrey came back out of the room only twenty minutes later, She looked very tired and a bit pale herself. She shut the door slowly as Hermione and Ron stood.

"Is he OK?" Ron demanded. Madame Pomfrey shook her head.

"Good news is he's alive now," she began, moving into the imfirmary as Tonks stood and the three followed her. She peeled off her outer robes, covered in blood and moved into her office, leaving the door open as she continued. "Bad news is we—Severus helped because he knows Healing magic— had to lengthen the gash to stop the bleeding, and since we were in a hurry, we nicked his vocal chords. If he wakes up he'll sound off for a while." She exited the office with new outer robes, old ones left in a laundry bin.

"That's all good news!" Tonks said, hi-fiving Ron excitedly. "So what he'll sound off, he's alive! He's alive!"

"OK, I'll rephrase the bad news. He's alive now, but at eight o'clock last night, he was technically dead for at least nine minutes. The lack of oxygen to his brain during those nine minutes most likely caused hyposic injury, causing irresversible brain damage, or brain death," Madame Pomfrey explained. "So if he wakes up as his normal self, and if he can talk then, he'll sound off for a while."

* * *

A/N: My Christmas gift to you, Harry might be brain dead. Can you give me a review for New Years?


	13. Chapter 13: 72

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

A/N: This chapter is really short and I'm sorry. I figured a long wait was worse than a short one even if you don't get as much. I'm really stressed right now. I came to Ottawa to see the Juniors and some a-hole broke into our car and stole three XBox games (like 60$ each), a pair of my mother's 150$ Uggs and our 200$ GPS. I hope whoever it is is driving around, led by our GPS, and tries to stop at a red light, slides on some ice into a pole and breaks his collarbone and suffers through that for seven weeks. Because there goes 530 bucks.

* * *

Hermione tapped her quill against her Potions essay as she sat in the infirmary two nights later. She couldn't concentrate on anything lately. Harry hadn't woken or shown any signs of waking, and Ron refused to visit. He said he couldn't stand not knowing what would happen to his small friend, he said if he was in the common room or with others he could forget the fact Harry might be technically dead. Hermione didn't like it but she understood. She didn't want to be here either, but if Harry did wake up, he shouldn't wake up alone.

She sighed. It wasn't fair at all. Why did this sort of thing always happen to Harry? She grabbed his hand again and squeezed, as if she thought that would wake him or do anything. Madame Pomfrey came around the privacy screen and took out her wand, casting a spell silently. A parchment readout appeared in midair and the mediwitch grabbed it, staring at multi-coloured wavy lines and points, almost like a graph.

"What's that?" Hermione asked.

"His brain activity has decreased," the witch sighed, taking out another sheet from her pocket. "See how here—" She pointed to the readout with higher spikes "—he's presenting delta waves, showing he's technically sleeping. But now—" She showed the second readout, without any orange and with dull, rounding spikes "—there's nothing but the signals to keep him breathing and his heart beating, and even those signals are weaker than I'd like." Madame Pomfrey pressed her hand against Harry's diaphragm, feeling his breathing patterns, then moving her fingers to his neck to take his pulse.

"How is he?" she asked again, nothing else to really say. Madame Pomfrey shrugged.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose. Look, Miss Granger," she began. "It really doesn't look good. He was unconscious for so long last time this happened because I put him in an induced coma to speed the healing of the nerve damage from the Cruciatis. There wasn't nearly as much arterial damage, not so much blood loss...this time he's... He's not only not waking up, but he's worsening. You should consider getting Mister Weasley in here to say goodbye, just in case."

* * *

Ron pulled his jacket tighter around his chest, shivering in the colder-than-normal November air. Hermione walked along beside him in the pale of six-o'clock twilight. He watched his breath drift off the wind, fading as his musings became more pronounced.

"How's Harry doing?" Ron asked. He missed his friend around in classes, and missed his muttering in his sleep at night in the dorm. I wonder if he mutters in the hospital wing, he thought. Hermione sighed as they walked back from Hagrid's hut.

"Madame Pomfrey says it doesn't look like he'll make it through the weekend. He's being placed on a breather tonight," Hermione relayed. He processed her words, rapidly becoming confused.

"A breather? I thought the problem was in his heart, not his lungs?" he half-said, half-asked.

"It was. His brain hasn't been getting enough blood because his heart can't pump it far enough fast enough. When the trauma from going without oxygen for so long when he first lost all the blood, his nerves are dying, so he can't breathe on his own," she explained. "His kidneys are also suffering, but Madame Pomfrey is filtering his blood for him, so they should heal if he gets better. It supposed to be a painful process, nerve death."

"Harry's in pain?" he demanded.

"No, his pain center in his brain has already died," she amended. "Madame Pomfrey said you should come and stay for a while, say goodbye while there's a chance he might hear you." silence drifted between the two, as obvious as their foggy breaths.

"I can't believe they cancelled Quidditch this year because Death Eater broke into the pitch over the summer," Ron said, trying to change the subject very obviously. Hermione smacked him upside the head.

"Ron! He's your best friend, and when confronted with the news that he'll probably die within the next seventy-two hours you change the subject?" she demanded, planting herself in front of him and placing both hands on his arms, trapping him there. "You haven't visited him once all week!"

"I can't stand look at him like that!" he shouted angrily, pulling away and trying to storm off, but she remained hot on his tail, holding one of his wrists tightly.

"Do you think it's easy for me to go alone night after night? It's like I'm losing both of my best friends! Ron, wait." She pulled him around by the wrist, sliding her fingers down to hold his hand. He ignored the fact he should be glad she was holding his hand. Harry was dying, and he couldn't focus because a beautiful woman was holding his hand? That was just sad. "I know it's hard, I've been there. But if he dies and you didn't come... You'll never forgive yourself, Ron, not ever."

"I can't see him like that," he repeated, hating himself for it. "He's not supposed to be so... weak. It's not right, it's not fair."

"We can't change that, but you need to visit him. Look," she told him when he refused to answer. "I'm going to be with him tonight, and if you show up great. If not, I'm sure Harry will understand."

She left, leaving Ron in the dark in the field. Maybe she's right, he thought as he finally started walking up to the school. He kicked at a rock absently. Stupid Hermione, always making sense. He continued his journey up to the school alone. He needed to see Harry.


	14. Chapter 14: Goodbyes

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Ron took a deep breath. Nothing he did here would change anything for Harry, he knew that, he accepted that. Nothing he had could save Harry. There was a chance, however big that chance may be, that Harry would die soon. Heck, he thought, there's a chance he's dead already. It's out of control, even Harry couldn't do anything. Medicines and spells couldn't assure a recovery. He couldn't build up hope. He couldn't let himself get disappointed. And most of all, he couldn't let himself get hurt anymore than he already would be.

He rubbed his face, focusing, pushing the door open and entering Harry's private room in the infirmary. An image of a healthy Harry complaining about special treatment while Hermione told him it was because there wasn't enough room for the life support machines in the regular infirmary. Reality sucked. He took in the scene: Madame Pomfrey staring at a thin trail of parchment rolling out of a machine the size of a small housecat, landing in a messy pile inside a basket placed beneath it, a wire or something wrapping Harry's thin wrist, humming away contentedly. Hermione sat, reading, on the red couch she had obviously moved here from the rarely-used student lounge by Myrtle's bathroom, and Harry. The blue and black mouth piece of the resperator pressed against his mouth, strapped to his pale face, the tube running over to a cylindrical machine making awful wheezing sounds. Yet another machine, one with two tubes, both pumping a red liquid in differing directions, running into his chest below his collarbone. He wondered what that one did. No one had sighted him yet, and he watched Mme Pomfrey circle the bed, murmuring.

She muttered an unfamiliar spell, a parchment readout appearing in the air. She grumbled about this and passed it to Hermione as the young woman looked up to hear the prognosis. His friend sighed, looking at the coloured lines. "His sympathetic and parasympathetic nerve systems have lowered signal put out again," she informed the mediwitch. "How long does he have if he stays stable?"

Madame Pomfrey shrugged. "He's not stable, I don't think it's worth guessing an estimate at," she demurred. "I just don't know..."

"Hey," he said to Mione after the mediwitch left through the door presumably leading to her office. His friend leaped up, dropping her book and the odd multi-coloured paper.

"Ron! You came!" Hermione cried, throwing her arms around him. "I'm so glad, thank you."

He sank onto the couch, still holding her in a hug, not quite wanting to let go. "Is he gonna be OK?" he asked, mentally slapping himself across the face. He'd warned himself before he got in here: Harry was not going to be OK. He would probably die in the next few days, or even hours, and even if a miracle happened and he woke up... His vison center in his brain was dead, his pain center as useless as it could be, his speech center was damaged... the list went on and on.

"Probably not, Ron," she whispered, practically in his lap as they sat beside Harry's bed. He rested his cheek on her hair and tried to get control of his whirling emotions. He'd come here knowing how it was, and now he was there wondering how he could do the impossible to save his friend. The two sat in silence for what seemed like ages, not moving from the awkward imbrace the sat in.

"What do they do?" he asked, not letting go of her. "The machines, I mean," he clarified as she glanced up at him, confused.

"The one against his mouth is the breather, obviously, breathing for him," she answered, snuggling further against his chest adorned with a homemade jumper. "The central line in his chest is trying to both oxygenate his blood and filter out some toxins that have been building up since his kidneys shut down."

"When did that happen?" he asked, not remembering hearing about this.

"Just after the... accident, I guess you can call it," she answered. "Blood loss hurts the kidneys and the heart. It's his bad heart that's hurting his brain."

"And the one attached to his wrist?" he asked. "What does that one do?"

"It just reads how well his hearts pumping. It'll also activate Poppy's alarm and Portkey to here if his heart stops. Here," she said, grabbing a Muggle pen from her bookbag, turing the multi-coloured page over, quickly sketching some jagged lines. "That's what a normal heartbeat looks like. You have sixty of these in a minute, normally. He's getting about twenty-eight beats, and they look like this."

"Even I can tell that's not healthy," Ron said, turning the paper over to look at the colours. "What's this?"

"This is what his brain is doing right now," she said. He stared at the paper. There was purple jaggs, red lines and a blue wave. It looked like a lot of activity, criss-crossing and almost dancing across the page. "Here's what your brain's doing." She cast a spell, one Ron sort of recognized from when Pomfrey was checking on Harry a while ago. His vision swirled and his fingers tingled, his head feeling like he had been held underwater for a minute or two instantaneously. Hermione showed him the parchment readout of his brain. He realized normal brains had at least forty colours and different waves and lines... Harry's brain didn't look very happy next to his mirage of reds and blues and greens... even a white line through the middle of the graph. He tossed both readouts aside, burying his face in Hermione's curly hair, trying to be selective about the realities he wanted to accept.

After a while, Ron realized Hermione's breath was too even, and glancing down at her face, he saw she was indeed asleep. He shifted her off him, leaving her curled on the couch. He grabbed an extra blanket he spied in a small basket beneath Harry's narrow hospital bed. He laid the woolen blanket over his snoozing friend, watching her sleep for a moment before turning to Harry.

Why was he so pale? Ron didn't remember him looking like this, not ever. If not for the unnatural paleness of his skin and the blankness of his face he could almost be sleeping. He snorted at how high the raised lumps of Harry's feet were, testimony to the shortness of his friend. He sat on the bed, staring at his friend's face.

He glanced back at Hermione, hoping she was really asleep. He didn't fancy the idea of anyone hearing his goodbye. It was time, after all, to give one.

"Hey, Harry," he said, his voice a little softer than the whipser he would use while raiding Snape's private rooms at two in the morning. He cleared his throat and forced himself to try again. "You're banged up, really good, mate. You probably can't hear me, and you probably aren't ever going to wake up, or even keep living like this until... I don't even know. I wish... I wish I'd come earlier, you know. So I could've sat here with Mione and the illusion of hope. The idea that there was a chance in one of the seven circles of hell that you might some how get better... Now..." Ron took a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing lump in his throat. He swallowed, trying to finish his goodbye before Harry slipped further away. "I'm sorry I let you go to the Dursleys again this summer. I'm sorry about that stupid stupid stupid fight in fourth year. One of the things that made you a great friend is the fact you were so quick to forgive. I could've put you in this coma myself and you'd be competely OK with it... I wonder if you'd be mad at Malfoy for giving you the cut in the first place... I'm glad this didn't happen at the Dursleys, in the very least. We would've found you dead after you missed the train, probably wrapped in a carpet and stuffed in a dumpster somewhere..." He swallowed again. "I'm, uh, gonna stay the night tonight, here in the infirm. So if you wanna maybe... Wake up? For me?" You know that's impossible, he told himself. You know you're going to get disappointed.

He kicked the crap out of himself mentally as he lay back down on the couch, pulling both the wool and human blankets on top of him.

* * *

A/N: We'll find out for sure if Harry will live or not in the next chapter. I promise! I'm not dragging this out any further. Review, make me feel smiley about being so mean to Harry.


	15. Chapter 15: Miracles

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

Harry knew something very, very bad was going to happen the moment he felt his neck soaked with the familiar warmth of blood. He didn't really understand what had happened, as he fell to his knees as his heart freaked out at the changed of pressure, pulsing painfully. He pressed his hand against the river of red, trying to staunch the flow. _Just remember that any amount of bleeding can hurt your heart now, Harry, _Poppy Pomfrey's words of warning echoed. _No more Quidditch until your artery is healed properly, in fact, take it easy all the time. Whether you like it or not, Harry, you're delicate. It's risky. You have to be careful, more than usual._ He felt Tonks latch her arms around his waist, scooping him into her arms, as he kept his own hands pressed to his neck.

He could tell the wetness was climbing further and further down his arms, and he tried desperately to keep calm. He knew if he panicked his heart would speed up, would cause faster bleeding. As it was, he could feel it struggling beneath his sternum, could feel its shaky beats like that of an amateur drummer.

"Don't worry, Harry," Tonks told him as they thundered down the thankfully-abandoned stairway. Harry's mind conjured up a vision of a poor first-year sighting a, no doubt, blood-covered Tonks and himself, and would've laughed at the imaginary reaction if he wasn't actually bleeding to death. With complete knowledge of that, not worrying was a lot easier said than done. "We're almost at Madame Pomfrey's, don't worry, don't..."

He realized his vison was darkening around the corners, and he couldn't keep his hands pressed against his neck, he couldn't try to staunch the deadly bleed. His fingers slipped from his throat, and Tonks burst into the infirmary, saying something to someone. Probably Poppy. Their exchanges washed over him like water, though it went too fast for him to understand.

He felt a soft something as he was placed down, Tonks leaving his limited line of sight. He dimly wondered what he was lying on, trying desperately to hold onto the small light he could see in his darkened vision, feeling as though if he fell into the warm blackness he'd never come out of it. Words swirled, a whoosh reminiscent of a Floo fluttered over his ears...

He could feel odd, cutting sensations on his... what was that? His neck? Yeah... his mind agreed, moving slowly through molasses-like thoughts. He was wet; his shirt sticking to him. Why was he wet? Was it raining? Where was he? Why couldn't he get his eyes to open? Time didn't seem to matter in this nothing land, he seemed to be drifting in and out of awareness, words from outside the black travelling through his brain, familar tones and wordings... Snape? Was he there.... Ron!

_"Is he OK? Is he OK?" _

It wasn't OK, he didn't want to go into the warm blanket of sleep-like nothingness. He didn't think it was safe there, felt like nothing would be the same if he slipped in his struggle to stay awake.

He fell deeper and deeper into the murky waters, the sounds of familar voices fading around him as he lost his only grip on reality, promising himself he'd hear the voices again.

* * *

Hermione woke up feeling more rested than she had in ages, despite being dragged awake by an odd alarm. The door burst open as she flicked off the warm blanket atop her. She smiled as Ron sat up sleepily beneath her. She enjoyed having him in the infirm with her, it seemed almost hopeful. Even Harry 'thought' so, staying stable but critical for the whole week, and now it was Saturday night and he was still alive, his kidneys doing a bit better.

Madame Pomfrey rushed to the heart rate machine, glancing at the readout. She then rushed around the bed, checking the ventilator and blood filter.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked. The mediwitch shook her head, not answering. She cast a spell, the brain wave analysis appearing. "Let me see!" she snapped after the witch stared at the sheet without speaking for an inordinate amount of time. The reading... it was positively hopping, delta waves screaming at her, parasympathetic and sympathetic signals dancing, other unknown waves and lines rioting, littering the page with hopeful colours.

"What's going on, Mione?" Ron asked, standing up, his Muggle jeans-and-t-shirt outfit rumpled adorably. She laughed aloud as Madame Pomfrey fussed with various status-checking spells, turning to throw her arms around Ron's chest, his neck to far up for her to reach. "What's so great you're hugging me?" he demanded, hugging her back hesitantly. Hermione laughed, the sound almost unfamiliar to her.

"He's going to be OK."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked her, grabbing her forearms and pulling her out of the hug. "Is he better? Are his plastic nerves signalling again?" She laughed as he fumbled with healing terms, and he grabbed the reading from her. "Wait, Mione, I don't get it. How did this happen?"

"I don't know, Ron, who cares right now? He's going to be OK, he'll be waking up!"

"Mione... I mean... He's still blind and the parts of his brain that were completely dead are still dead right?" he asked, his eyes flickering back and forth from one of his best friends to the other. Hermione thought about it. She realized she didn't know. She turned to Madame Pomfrey, who shrugged.

"One way to find out, I guess. His vision center and his pain center were the only ones that died completely. So," she said logically, conjuring a needle and flipping back the covers to stab Harry's foot with it. He jerked, his foot pulling up away from the stab. "So, he seems to be feeling that..." She then peeled back an eyelid and used her wand to direct a small beam of light across his pupils a few times. She sighed finally, letting the very-green eye shut once more. "Two out of three in the miracle-recovery department, I suppose."

"But... He should wake up, right?" Hermione asked, suddenly feeling a lot less sure about the miracle recovery. Some parts of his brain had died, and some parts wouldn't ever recover. How would he read? Muggle Braille was an option, but she didn't actually know if wizards used Braille. She'd never seen anyone using sign language, though it wasn't as though she'd been looking.

"He should," Mme Pomfrey admitted. "But, he should've died ages ago so I'm not making promises. His kidneys and heart still aren't stellar, so even if he wakes up, it'll be a while before he can leave."

"So," Ron said, pulling Hermione back into the hug. She smiled against his shoulder, enjoying his warmth. "It'll be a while before we have to stop cuddling."

* * *

A/N: Ha. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't kill Harry... yet. *evil cackle* Review! PLEASE!


	16. Chapter 16: Blind

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

"I can't see," Harry said, reaching up with a hand—was something tied around his wrist?—to rub his eyes, to, uh, see if they were still there. He could feel the roundness of the eyes beneath his fingers, but either it was completely dark in here, enough that Harry wasn't even sure if he saw blackness or if sight was gone completely. "Why can't I see?"

"Harry," a familiar voice gasped, happy. He felt a hand grab his, soft and small. "You're awake!"

"Ginny?" he guessed, feeling his brow furrow as he sat up, having some difficulty with his jelly-like limbs. "Why can't I see?"

"Yes, it's me. Good guess," she complimented. She was avoiding his question. He felt the ground, sure it wasn't a bed, inspecting the stone beneath his fingers. "Any guesses where you are?"

"Um, well, I doubt Poppy would leave a patient on the floor of the infirm... and the last thing I remember is my neck splitting open... So, Room of Requirement? How long was I out?"

"About three and a half weeks," Ginny answered. "You spent it in a nearly-brain-dead coma and then you somehow bounced back a few days ago."

"I spent three weeks in the Room of Requirement?"

"No, not at all," Ginny said, her voice softer, her fingers leaving his. He missed them immediately, not because he liked holding hands, but because she could now disappear and he wouldn't know. "You spent all of it except today in the infirm. But today... There was an attack on Hogwarts. Ron and Hermione were eating lunch and I was sitting with you... We couldn't get you out, the evacuation had started already... So we came here."

"Who's we?" he asked, reaching up to feel his neck. He felt stitches running down and dipping under his shirt collar. He wondered what he was wearing, as his t-shirt at the time of the accident was probably covered in blood.

"Madame Pomfrey's here, but she's sleeping. She had a rough time keeping you alive without the machines. You're awake now, though!"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Why can't I see?"

"Well, I'm not sure of the specifics, but... I'm certain it has something to do with a part of your brain dying."

He sighed, trying to control the inner turmoil. "So... I'm blind, permanently."

"I know. Kinda sucks huh? I mean, you'll never read again, never get to play Seeker—"

"Ginny!" he cried, folding his legs into a cross-legged position. "I don't want to think about the things I'll never see again, the things I can't do!"

"Right," she said. "Sorry."

"So what happened really?"

"I cut my hand in Potions class, so I was in the infirm. The attack started, they definitely burned down Gryffindor Tower and the Astronomy Tower. I think the Divination Tower was knocked down by the giants they had..."

"So Hogwarts is pretty much destroyed?" he asked. Silence met him and he assumed she'd nodded or shaken her head. Either way, he dropped it, not sure he wanted to know what had happened to his almost-home. "Where are Ron and Hermione?"

"I... I assume they were evacuated."

"You assume?"

"I haven't seen them all day. They... I think they're kinda an item now."

"An item?" he asked, his heart sinking at the idea of Ron dating someone. Dammit, Potter, he thought to himself. This stupid crush on Ron has to stop! What's next, you'll get all giddy over the fact he probably spent three weeks at your bedside helping Poppy care for you. Even as he realized this he felt the stirrings of butterflies, telling him he really did find it sweet Ron would do that.

He wasn't listening as Ginny described how she'd sneak out of the dorms to visit him at night and he and Hermione would be cuddling. He was sitting cross-legged, wondering what had happened to his friends, and whether he'd see them soon. Metaphorically, of course. He'd never really see them...

* * *

Hermione lay with her head on Ron's shoulder, waiting in the weird room of the Ministry for something. His arms were wrapped around her tightly, making her warm and making her feel safe despite the situation. A few people, Ginny, Seamus, Neville, weren't there with the Gryffindors but most likely with the other wounded students. It had two days they'd been in the waiting rooms, in lockdown.

"You think Harry's OK?" Ron asked her, raising a hand the play with her hair. She leaned into his touch unconsciously, watching the sleeping students surrounding them in the unfurnished, poorly lit Potions-dungeon-like room.

"He's probably with Madame Pomfrey, so I'll say yes," Hermione answered, rubbing Ron's knee in response to his scalp massage. She closed her eyes against the grey, grey room with students covered by grey blankets and her grey thoughts. She was worried; Hogwarts was nearly destroyed, she had to have her wrist, ankle and collarbone mended and every part of her ached from being thrown through the air during the blast.

"I suppose…" Ron murmured, obviously not convinced. He rested his cheek on her head and she nestled his chest, rolling off her back onto her side. His heart thumped into her ears steadily, peaceful. "Do you really think he'll be blind?" he asked her.

"Yes," she sighed, pulling their blanket up higher around her shoulders. "I do think so, Ron. I don't see another way around it."

"He won't play Quidditch again," he said, his fingers still in her hair. Hermione didn't answer, not sure how to, as she watched through the open door at two nameless Aurors and Professor McGonagall, whispering vehemently.

"Ron, look!" Hermione ordered as she heard Harry's name. Ron's head raised, and they watched and listened.

"You're sure the students you're missing aren't just… sleeping through role?" one man asked McGonagall.

"I'm positive. The mediwitch responsible for him isn't here either, and don't suggest I've misplaced a mediwitch caring for a comatose student, sirs! Why hasn't one of your men gone to Hogwarts to look for injured children in the collapsed building?" McGonagall snapped. "Neville Longbottom, Ginny Weasley, Madame Poppy Pomfrey, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are all unaccounted for!" The men murmured to her, pulling her to face away from the door.

After the two men had left, the teacher stood in the doorway, unaware of the teen watching them.

"My sister's missing…" Ron said slowly. Hermione swallowed heavily.

"And Harry's probably dead."

* * *

A/N: OMG, i am so so so so so so sorry for the delay. My computer died again and I had midterms and I kinda failed my math midterm and had to do like six thousand extracredit things. But I'm back. As always, review!


	17. Chapter 17: Visible

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

"What do you mean he's probably dead?" Ron demanded, sitting up, accidentally dumping Hermione off him and onto the ground. How could she say such a thing? Harry had to be OK, she said so herself a moment ago!

"Think about it, Ron! Madame Pomfrey was with him, and she's missing too," she told him, looking away. "Death Eaters attacked the school, do you find it hard to believe they found him?"

"No, not really," he whispered, his mind conjuring up a picture of Malfoy Sr entering the infirm and firing off a Killing Curse, stopping Harry's weakened heart as he lay helplessly, unconscious. He tried to banish the thought from his mind, but it stuck, lingering in the back of his mind. "But… It can't… It didn't! No."

"You're right," Hermione acknowledged half-heartedly. She never backed down that easily with him, so he could tell she was just humoring him, both trying to shake her words out of their fearful minds. "He's always OK in the end. He's fine… What do you think happened to Ginny?" Hermione asked him, taking his hand as he stared at where McGonagall had been moments before.

"Well, I'm pretty sure she had Potions that period, so at least we know she wasn't in the dorm when it collapsed," Ron said, even as he felt relief at this idea he grew more worried. Snape wasn't missing, he must be with the Order.

"I guess so," Hermione agreed. "What about Neville? He wasn't in class when the attack started."

"I know… I hope he's OK. Malfoy's missing too. What do we make of that?" he asked her, the image changing from Malfoy Sr to the jerk in their Potions class, Harry awake, his eyes huge with fear as the boy a bit older than him raised his wand…

"I dunno," she said. "McGonagall is right, why hasn't anyone gone back to Hogwarts to check for missing students? Surely we're not missing only four students and one staff member! I mean, I haven't seen Jason Shone, that seventh-year who you insist is a player."

"Hermione," he said, the sick truth sinking in. "Bodies aren't missing people. Do you really think everyone survived? What she was visiting him when the attack started? You know how she feels about him, but we always kicked her out," Ron said, the vision in his mind adding Ginny to the mix. "Is it shocking to find she skipped Potions to see him?"

"I guess not," Hermione agreed. "We can't make any assumptions - people assumed Pettigrew was dead, and look what happened there."

"I know… We shouldn't assume she's even hurt, though," he said. "She's probably fine. She's fine. My sister's not dead. Harry's not dead. They're OK, I don't have to worry."

"We'll get through this," he said, half to himself. He looked to the door once more. "I wonder if there's anything we could do to help with finding people."

Hermione scooted back over, laying her head on his chest once more, pulling the blanket back over them.

"I want to go home," she whispered.

* * *

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Ginny yelled after the wall fell in, blocking their access to Harry and Neville. "Harry!" she yelled, trying to pull on a rock. "Neville! Are you guys OK?"

The dust began to clear around the new wall and Ginny shook her head, trying to clear enough air to breathe without coughing up a lung. She joined her hand in the waving, then spun as she heard a second set of coughing join hers.

"Madame Pomfrey!" Ginny cried as she found the settling dust allowed her to see the woman. She ran the few steps to the woman, dropping to her knees and pulling out her wand - why didn't she think of that earlier? - and tried to levitate the rock crushing the left half of the woman's body. She couldn't conjure a strong enough lifting spell to help the mediwitch, and she tried lifting it by hand. Who ever made rocks heavy was an asshole.

"Who--?" Madame Pomfrey began. She coughed, unable to finish, red blood drbbling the floor as her cough cleared a small area of the dusty floor by her down-facing mouth.

"It's Ginny," Ginny said. "I can't get the rocks off you, I can't get them off."

"Stop fussing, child," Madame Pomfrey ordered. "You couldn't heal me even if you could. Listen-" she paused to cough up more blood "-the magic that makes the Room of Requirement able to do what it does might fail - be careful."

Ginny held the woman's hand, waiting as the life slipped from the older woman who had taken care of everyone at Hogwarts, often without a proper thank you.

* * *

"You need a way to kill Voldemort, and you can't do it blind," Neville whispered to Harry, watching him pace as Ginny and Madame Pomfrey were trapped on the other side of a wall of rubble, hopefully OK.

"What makes you think it has to be me?" Harry asked him, standing still now and resting a pale hand against the stones.

"Ron left the letter explaining the weight of the prophecy on his bed after he went to shower. The other boys were still asleep, and I kind of freaked out and burned it," Neville explained. "I figured it had to be you. You're the hero, after all."

"Heroes don't get themselves trapped in a collapsed building in a situation where they can't save anyone," Harry said, rubbing his scar.

"Does that ever hurt?" Neville asked, having held the question back since first year.

"What?" Harry asked, turning an ear to Neville, a perverted version of glancing at someone confusedly. Weird how Harry's body language seemed so different to Neville now.

"Your scar," he clarified. "You're always rubbing it just before Voldemort attacks."

"Yeah, it hurts. It could've been yours, you know," Harry said. "Either of us could've been Voldemort's chosen one."

"Why you?" Neville asked.

"I'm a half-blood, just like the Big Man himself," Harry said. An idea struck Neville.

"Wait, you can't do anything right now because you can't see, right?" he demanded.

"And I feel like my heart going to explode if I stand for too long, but yeah," Harry said, not moving his ear away from Neville's sight-line, er, sound-line?

"What did the prophecy say exactly?" Harry recited it, almost surprising Neville with the closeness to which it could've been him. "Voldemort didn't realize, it, but he marked both of us, Harry! Only one of our scars are visible!"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. Neville nodded, latching on to the idea that Harry could end the war.

"I had to grow up without parents," he said. "That leaves a mark on people, even if your scar is a real one and mine isn't."

"Maybe that's the power - trust, not love, but trust…" Harry muttered, resuming pacing. Neville didn't know what e he was talking about but continued anyway.

"I always feel like you know what I'm thinking, and I know you've been doing extra-classes with Dumbledore - do you know a way to, like, get inside my mind and make me do what you would? We'd work together to kill Voldemort." Harry turned to him, Adam's apple bobbing nervously.

"My plan could easily kill both of us."

"I don't care. As long as we kill him"

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the delay. RL got in the way.


	18. Author's Note Hiatus

(Disclaimer: I don't own or claim any part of the HP universe, it belongs to Miss JK Rowling, and her publishers including, but not limited to, Bloomsbury, Penguin and Scholastic, along with their respective shareholders and branch/mother companies.)

* * *

**THIS IS NOT AN OFFICIAL UPDATE! **

* * *

_Look, Real Life is getting in the way of the completion of this story. I know, I hate me too. If anyone wants to continue the story, it's up for "adoption" (though I'd prefer to continue to post it on this account so readers don't have to deal with chapter turnovers, and the new/co- author will get full credit for their writings and work.). I'm sorry, my muse for these characters has unfortunately disappeared on me, and I'm busy with work, school, plays (I'm currently lead in two, minor in another), and GOD knows what else. I'm sorry to my readers, reviewers and the lovely people who added this and me to favourites lists. If no one PM's me with chapter ideas/actual chapters, it may be a while before this story is completed. I'm sorry again - best wishes, Shai._


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